FREE  AND  OTHER 
STORIES  - 

BY  THEODORE  DREISER 

f    ( 

AUTHOR  OF  " SISTER  CARRIE,"  "THE  HAND  OF  THE  POTTER," 

"JENNIE  GERHARDT,"  ETC. 


BONI      AND      LIVERIGHT 

NEWYORK  Il8 


Copyright,  1918 
BY  BONI  &  LIVERIGHT.  Inc. 


Pint  Printing Auguri.  1918 

Second  Printing Augutt,  1918 

Third  Printing August,  1918 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FREE -     ...         9 

McEWEN  OF  THE  SHINING  SLAVE  MAKERS    ...  54    <X 

NIGGER  JEFF 76   u- 

THE  LOST  PHCEBE     .     .     .     .     .     .     '.   .  .     .     .  112 

THE  SECOND  CHOICE     .*     . 135 

A  STORY  OF  STORIES 163 

OLD  ROGAUM  AND  His  THERESA 201  V 

WILL  You  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR 229 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 300 

MARRIED  .      . 323 

WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 35 1  ^ 


FREE 

THE  large  and  rather  comfortable  apartment  of 
Rufus  Haymaker,  architect,  in  Central  Park 
West,  was  very  silent.  It  was  scarcely  dawn  yet,  and 
at  the  edge  of  the  park,  over  the  way,  looking  out  from 
the  front  windows  which  graced  this  abode  and  gave 
it  its  charm,  a  stately  line  of  poplars  was  still  shrouded 
in  a  gray  morning  mist.  From  his  bedroom  at  one  end 
of  the  hall,  where,  also,  a  glimpse  of  the  park  was  to 
be  had,  came  Mr.  Haymaker  at  this  early  hour  to  sit 
by  one  of  these  broader  windows  and  contemplate  these 
trees  and  a  small  lake  beyond.  He  was  very  fond  of 
Nature  in  its  manifold  art  forms — quite  poetic,  in  fact. 

He  was  a  tall  and  spare  man  ofabout  sixty,  not 
ungraceful,  though  slightly  stoop-shouldered,  with 
heavy  overhanging  eyebrows  and  hair,  and  a  short, 
professionally  cut  gray  mustache  and  beard,  which 
gave  him  a  severe  and  yet  agreeable  presence.  For  the 
present  he  was  clad  in  a  light-blue  dressing  gown  with 
silver  cords,  which  enveloped  him  completely.  He  had 
thin,  pale,  long-fingered  hands,  wrinkled  at  the  back 
and  slightly  knotted  at  the  joints,  which  bespoke  the 
artist,  in  mood  at  least,  and  his  eyes  had  a  weary  and 
yet  restless  look  in  them. 

For  only  yesterday  Doctor  Storm,  the  family  physi 
cian,  who  was  in  attendance  on  his  wife,  ill  now  for 
these  three  weeks  past  with  a  combination  of  heart 


JO 


FREE 


lesion,  kidney  poisoning  and  neuritis,  had  taken  him 
aside  and  said  very  softly  and  affectionately,  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  spare  his  feelings :  "To-morrow,  Mr. 
Haymaker,  if  your  wife  is  no  better  I  will  call  in  my 
friend,  Doctor  Grainger,  whom  you  know,  for  a  con 
sultation.  He  is  more  of  an  expert  in  these  matters  of 
the  heart" — the  heart,  Mr.  Haymaker  had  time  to  note 
ironically — "than  I  am.  Together  we  will  make  a 
thorough  examination,  and  then  I  hope  we  will  be  bet 
ter  able  to  say  what  the  possibilities  ofs  her  recovery 
really  are.  It's  been  a  very  trying  case,  a  very  stub 
born  one,  I  might  say.  Still,  she  has  a  great  deal  of 
vitality  and  is  doing  as  well  as  could  be  expected,  all 
things  considered.  At  the  same  time,  though  I  don't 
wish  to  alarm  you  unnecessarily — and  there  is  no  oc 
casion  for  great  alarm  yet — still  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
warn  you  that  her  condition  is  very  serious  indeed. 
Not  that  I  wish  you  to  feel  that  she  is  certain  to  die. 
I  don't  think  she  is.  Not  at  all.  Just  the  contrary. 
She  may  get  well,  and  probably  will,  and  live  all  of 
twenty  years  more."  (Mentally  Mr.  Haymaker  sighed 
a  purely  spiritual  sigh.)  "She  has^fine  recuperative 
powers,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  butane'  has  a  bad  heart, 
and  this  kidney  trouble  has  not  helped  it  any.  Just 
now,  when  her  heart  should  have  the  least  strain,  it 
has  the  most. 

"She  is  just  at  that  point  where,  as  I  may  say,  things 
are  in  the  balance.  A  day  or  two,  or  three  or  four  at 
the  most,  ought  to  show  which  way  things  will  go. 
But,  as  I  have  said  before,  I  do  not  wish  to  alarm  you 
unnecessarily.  We  are  not  nearly  at  the  end  of  our 
tether.  We  haven't  tried  blood  transfusion  yet,  and 
there  are  several  arrows  to  that  bow.  Besides,  at  any 


FREE  ii 

moment  she  may  respond  more  vigorously  to  medica 
tion  than  she  has  heretofore — especially  in  connection 
with  her  kidneys.  In  that  case  the  situation  would  be 
greatly  relieved  at  once. 

"However,  as  I  say,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  speak  to  you 
in  this  way  in  order  that  you  may  be  mentally  pre 
pared  for  any  event,  because  in  such  an  odd  combina 
tion  as  this  the  worst  may  happen  at  any  time.  We 
never  can  tell.  As  an  old  friend  of  yours  and  Mrs. 
Haymaker's,  and  knowing  how  much  you  two  mean  to 
each  other" — Mr.  Haymaker  merely  stared  at  him 
vacantly — "I  feel  it  my  duty  to  prepare  you  in  this 
way.  We  all  of  us  have  to  face  these  things.  Only 
last  year  I  lost  my  dear  Matilda,  my  youngest  child,  as 
you  know.  Just  the  same,  as  I  say,  I  have  the  feeljng 
that  Mrs.  Haymaker  is  not  really  likely  to  die  soon, 
and  that  we — Doctor  Grainger  and  myself — will  still 
be  able  to  pull  her  through.  I  really  do." 

Doctor  Storm  looked  at  Mr.  Haymaker  as  though 
he  were  very  sorry  for  him — an  old  man  long  accus 
tomed  to  his  wife's  ways  and  likely  to  be  made  very 
unhappy  by  her  untimely  end ;  whereas  Mr.  Haymaker, 
though  staring  in  an  almost  sculptural  way,  was  really 
thinking  what  a  farce  it  all  was,  what  a  dull  mixture 
of  error  and  illusion  on  the  part  of  all.  Here  he  was, 
sixty  years  of  age,  weary  of  all  this,  of  life  really — 
a  man  who  had  never  been  really  happy  in  all  the  time 
that  he  had  been  married;  and  yet  here  was  his  wife, 
who  from  conventional  reasons  believed  that  he  was 
or  should  be,  and  who  on  account  of  this  was  serenely 
happy  herself,  or  nearly  so.  And  this  doctor,  who  im 
agined  that  he  was  old  and  weak  and  therefore  in  need 
of  this  loving  woman's  care  and  sympathy  and  under- 


12  FREE 

standing!  Unconsciously  he  raised  a  deprecating 
hand. 

Also  his  children,  who  thought  him  dependent  on 
her  and  happy  with  her;  his  servants  and  her  and  his 
friends  thinking  the  same  thing,  and  yet  he  really  was 
not.  It  was  all  a  lie.  He  was  unhappy.  Always  he 
had  been  unhappy,  it  seemed,  ever  since  he  had  been 
married — for  over  thirty-one  years  now.  Never  in 
all  that  time,  for  even  so  much  as  a  single  day,  had 
he  ever  done  anything  but  long,  long,  long,  in  a  pale, 
constrained  way — for  what,  he  scarcely  dared  think — 
not  to  be  married  any  more — to  be  free — to  be  as  he 
was  before  ever  he  saw  Mrs.  Haymaker. 

And  yet  being  conventional  in  mood  and  training 
and  utterly  domesticated  by  time  and  conditions  over 
which  he  seemed  not  to  have  much  control — nature, 
custom,  public  opinion,  and  the  like,  coming  into 
play  as  forces — he  had  drifted,  had  not  taken  any 
drastic  action.  No,  he  had  merely  drifted,  wondering 
if  time,  accident  or  something  might  not  interfere  and 
straighten  out  his  life  for  him,  but  it  never  had.  Now 
weary,  old,  or  rapidly  becoming  so,  he  condemned  him 
self  for  his  inaction.  Why  hadn't  he  done  something 
about  it  years  before?  Why  hadn't  he  broken  it  up 
before  it  was  too  late,  and  saved  his  own  soul,  his 
longing  for  life,  color?  But  no,  he  had  not.  Why 
complain  so  bitterly  now  ? 

All  the  time  the  doctor  had  talked  this  day  before 
he  had  wanted  to  smile  a  wry,  dry,  cynical  smile,  for  in 
reality  he  did  not  want  Mrs.  Haymaker  to  live — or  at 
least  at  the  moment  he  thought  so.  He  was  too  miser 
ably  tired  of  it  all.  And  so  now,  after  nearly  twenty- 
four  hours  of  the  same  unhappy  thought,  sitting  by 


FREE  13 

this  window  looking  at  a  not  distant  building  which 
shone  faintly  in  the  haze,  he  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  hair  as  he  gazed,  and  sighed. 

How  often  in  these  weary  months,  and  even  years, 
past — ever  since  he  and  his  wife  had  been  living  here, 
and  before — had  he  come  to  these  or  similar  windows 
while  she  was  still  asleep,  to  sit  and  dream !  For  some 
years  now  they  had  not  even  roomed  together,  so  in 
different  had  the  whole  state  become;  though  she  did 
not  seem  to  consider  that  significant,  either.  Life  had 
become  more  or  less  of  a  practical  problem  to  her,  one 
of  position,  place,  prestige.  And  yet  how  often,  view 
ing  his  life  in  retrospect,  had  he  wished  that  his  life 
had  been  as  sweet  as  his  dreams — that  his  dreams  had 
come  true. 

After  a  time  on  this  early  morning,  for  it  was  still 
gray,  with  the  faintest  touch  of  pink  in  the  east,  he 
shook  his  head  solemnly  and  sadly,  then  rose  and  re 
turned  along  the  hall  to  his  wife's  bedroom,  at  the  door 
of  which  he  paused  to  look  where  she  lay  seriously  ill, 
and  beside  her  in  an  armchair,  fast  asleep,  a  trained 
nurse  who  was  supposedly  keeping  the  night  vigil 
ordered  by  the  doctor,  but  who  no  doubt  was  now  very 
weary.  His  wife  was  sleeping  also — very  pale,  very 
thin  now,  and  very  weak.  He  felt  sorry  for  her  at 
times,  in  spite  of  his  own  weariness ;  now,  for  instance. 
Why  need  he  have  made  so  great  a  mistake  so  long 
ago?  Perhaps  it  was  his  own  fault  for  not  having 
been  wiser  in  his  youth.  Then  he  went  quietly  on  to 
his  own  room,  to  lie  down  and  think. 

Always  these  days,  now  that  she  was  so  very  ill  and 
the  problem  of  her  living  was  so  very  acute,  the  creep 
ing  dawn  thus  roused  him — to  think.  It  seemed  as 


I4  FREE 

though  he  could  not  really  sleep  soundly  any  more,  so 
stirred  and  distrait  was  he.  He  was  not  so  much  tired 
or  physically  worn  as  mentally  bored  or  disappointed. 
Life  had  treated  him  so  badly,  he  kept  thinking  to  him 
self  over  and  over.  He  had  never  had  the  woman  he 
really  wanted,  though  he  had  been  married  so  long, 
had  been  faithful,  respectable  and  loved  by  her,  in  her 
way.  "In  her  way,"  he  half  quoted  to  himself  as  he 
lay  there. 

Presently  he  would  get  up,  dress  and  go  down  to  his 
office  as  usual  if  his  wife  were  not  worse.  But — but, 
he  asked  himself — would  she  be?  Would  that  slim 
and  yet  so  durable  organism  of  hers — quite  as  old  as 
his  own,  or  nearly  so — break  under  the  strain  of  this 
really  severe  illness?  That  would  set  him  free  again, 
and  nicely,  without  blame  or  comment  on  him.  He 
could  then  go  where  he  chose  once  more,  do  as  he 
pleased— think  of  that — without  let  or  hindrance.  For 
she  was  ill  at  last,  so  very  ill,  the  first  and  really  great 
illness  she  had  endured  since  their  marriage.  For 
weeks  now  she  had  been  lying  so,  hovering,  as  it  were, 
between  life  and  death,  one  day  better,  the  next  day 
worse,  and  yet  not  dying,  and  with  no  certainty  that 
she  would,  and  yet  not  getting  better  either.  Doctor 
Storm  insisted  that  it  was  a  leak  in  her  heart  which 
had  suddenly  manifested  itself  which  was  causing  all 
the  real  trouble.  He  was  apparently  greatly  troubled 
as  to  how  to  control  it. 

During  all  this  period  Mr.  Haymaker  had  been,  as 
usual,  most  sympathetic.  His  manner  toward  her  was 
always  soft,  kindly,  apparently  tender.  He  had  never 
really  begrudged  her  anything — nothing  certainly  that 
he  could  afford.  He  was  always  glad  to  see  her  and 


FREE  15 

the  children  humanly  happy — though  they,  too,  largely 
on  account  of  her,  he  thought,  had  proved  a  disappoint 
ment  to  him — because  he  had  always  sympathized 
with  her  somewhat  unhappy  youth,  narrow  and 
stinted;  and  yet  he  had  never  been  happy  himself, 
either,  never  in  all  the  time  that  he  had  been  married. 
If  she  had  endured  much,  he  kept  telling  himself  when 
he  was  most  unhappy,  so  had  he,  only  it  was  harder 
perhaps  for  women  to  endure  things  than  men — he 
was  always  willing  to  admit  that — only  also  she  had 
had  his  love,  or  thought  she  had,  an  actual  spiritual 
peace,  which  he  had  never  had.  She  knew  she  had  a 
faithful  husband.  He  felt  that  he  had  never  really 
had  a  wife  at  all,  not  one  that  he  could  love  as  he 
knew  a  wife  should  be  loved.  His  dreams  as  to  that! 
Going  to  his  office  later  this  same  day — it  was  in  one 
of  those  tall  buildings  that  face  Madison  Square — he 
had  looked  first,  in  passing,  at  the  trees  that  line  Cen 
tral  Park  West,  and  then  at  the  bright  wall  of  apart 
ment  houses  facing  it,  and  meditated  sadly,  heavily. 
Here  the  sidewalks  were  crowded  with  nursemaids 
and  children  ajt  play,  and  in  between  them,  of  course, 
the  occasional  citizen  loitering  or  going  about  his  er 
rands.  The  day  was  so  fine,  so  youthful,  as  spring 
days  will  seem  at  times.  As  he  looked,  especially  at 
the  children,  and  the  young  men  bustling  office-ward, 
mostly  in  new  spring  suits,  he  sighed  and  wished  that 
he  were  young  once  more.  Think  how  brisk  and  hope 
ful  they  were!  Everything  was  before  them.  They 
could  still  pick  and  choose — no  age  or  established  con 
ditions  to  stay  them.  Were  any  of  them,  he  asked 
himself  for  the  thousandth  time,  it  seemed  to  him,  as 
wearily  connected  as  he  had  been  at  their  age?  Did 


i 6  FREE 

they  each  have  a  charming  young  wife  to  love — one 
of  whom  they  were  passionately  fond — such  a  one  as 
he  had  never  had;  or  did  they  not? 

Wondering,  he  reached  his  office  on  one  of  the  top^ 
most  floors  of  one  of  those  highest  buildings  com- 
.manding  a  wide  view  of  the  city,  and  surveyed  it  wear 
ily.  Here  were  visible  the  two  great  rivers  of  the  city, 
its  towers  and  spires  and  far-flung  walls.  From  these 
sometimes,  even  yet,  he  seemed  to  gain  a  patience  to 
live,  to  hope.  How  in  his  youth  all  this  had  inspired 
him — or  that  other  city  that  was  then.  Even  now  he 
was  always  at  peace  here,  so  much  more  so  than  in  his 
own  home,  pleasant  as  it  was.  Here  he  could  look  out 
over  this  great  scene  c.nd  dream  or  he  could  lose  the 
memory  in  his  work  that  his  love-life  had  been  a  fail 
ure.  The  great  city,  the  buildings  he  could  plan  or 
supervise,  the  efficient  help  that  always  surrounded 
him — his  help,  not  hers — aided  to  take  his  mind  off 
himself  and  that  deep-seated  inner  ache  or  loss. 

The  care  of  Mr.  Haymaker's  apartment  during  his 
wife's  illness  and  his  present  absence  throughout  the 
day,  devolved  upon  a  middle-aged  woman  of  great 
seriousness,  Mrs.  Elfridge  by  name,  whom  Mrs.  Hay 
maker  had  employed  years  before;  and  under  her  a 
maid  of  all  work,  Hester,  who  waited  on  table,  opened 
the  door,  and  the  like ;  and  also  at  present  two  trained 
nurses,  one  for  night  and  one  for  day  service,  who 
were  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Haymaker.  The  nurses  were 
both  bright,  healthy,  blue-eyed  girls,  who  attracted 
Mr.  Haymaker  and  suggested  all  the  youth  he  had 
never  had — without  really  disturbing  his  poise.  It 
would  seem  as  though  that  could  never  be  any  more. 

In  addition,  of  course,  there  was  the  loving  interest 


FREE  17 

of  his  son  Wesley  and  his  daughter  Ethelberta — whom 
his  wife  had  named  so  in  spite  of  him — both  of  whom 
had  long  since  married  and  had  children  of  their  own 
and  were  living  in  different  parts  of  the  great  city. 
In  this  crisis  both  of  them  came  daily  to  learn  how 
things  were,  and  occasionally  to  stay  for  the  entire 
afternoon  or  evening,  or  both.  Ethelberta  had  wanted 
to  come  and  take  charge  of  the  apartment  entirely  dur 
ing  her  mother's  illness,  only  Mrs.  Haymaker,  who 
was  still  able  to  direct,  and  fond  of  doing  so,  would 
not  hear  of  it.  She  was  not  so  ill  but  that  she  could 
still  speak,  and  in  this  way  could  inquire  and  direct. 
Besides,  Mrs.  Elfridge  was  as  good  as  Mrs.  Haymaker 
in  all  things  that  related  to  Mr.  Haymaker's  physical 
comfort,  or  so  she  thought. 

If  the  truth  will  come  out — as  it  will  in  so  many 
pathetic  cases — it  was  never  his  physical  so  much  as 
his  spiritual  or  affectional  comfort  that  Mr.  Haymaker 
craved.  As  said  before,  he  had  never  loved  Mrs. 
Haymaker,  or  certainly  not  since  that  now  long-distant 
period  back  in  Muskegon,  Michigan,  where  both  had 
been  born  and  where  they  had  lived  and  met  at  the 
ages,  she  of  fifteen,  he  of  seventeen.  It  had  been, 
strange  as  it  might  seem  now,  a  love  match  at  first 
sight  with  them.  She  had  seemed  so  sweet,  a  girl  of 
his  own  age  or  a  little  younger,  the  daughter  of  a  local 
chemist.  Later,  when  he  had  been  forced  by  poverty 
to  go  out  into  the  world  to  make  his  own  way,  he  had 
written  her  much,  and  imagined  her  to  be  all  that  she 
had  seemed  at  fifteen,  and  more — a  dream  among  fair 
women.  But  Fortune,  slow  in  coming  to  his  aid  and 
fickle  in  fulfilling  his  dreams,  had  brought  it  about  that 
for  several  years  more  he  had  been  compelled  to  stay 


i 8  FREE 

away  nearly  all  of  the  time,  unable  to  marry  her;  dur 
ing  which  period,  unknown  to  himself  really,  his  own 
point  of  view  had  altered.  How  it  had  happened  he 
could  never  tell  really,  but  so  it  was.  The  great  city, 
larger  experiences — while  she  was  still  enduring  the 
smaller  ones — other  faces,  dreams  of  larger  things,  had 
all  combined  to  destroy  it  or  her,  only  he  had  not  quite 
realized  it  then.  He  was  always  so  slow  in  realizing 
the  full  import  of  the  immediate  thing,  he  thought. 

That  was  the  time,  as  he  had  afterward  told  him 
self — how  often! — that  he  should  have  discovered  his 
mistake  and  stopped.  Later  it  always  seemed  to  be 
come  more  and  more  impossible.  Then,  in  spite  of 
some  heartache  to  her  and  some  distress  to  himself, 
no  doubt,  all  would  be  well  for  him  now.  But  no;  he 
had  been  too  inexperienced,  too  ignorant,  too  bound  by 
all  the  conventions  and  punctilio  of  his  simple  Western 
world.  He  thought  an  engagement,  however  unsatis 
factory  it  might  come  to  seem  afterward,  was  an  en 
gagement,  and  binding.  An  honorable  man  would  not 
break  one — or  so  his  country  moralists  argued. 

Yes,  at  that  time  he  might  have  written  her,  he 
might  have  told  her,  then.  But  he  ha'd  been  too  sensi 
tive  and  kindly  to  speak  of  it.  Afterward  it  was  too 
late.  He  feared  to  wound  her,  to  undo  her,  to  undo 
her  life.  But  now — now — look  at  his!  He  had  gone 
back  on  several  occasions  before  marriage,  and  might 
have  seen  and  done  and  been  free  if  he  had  had  but 
courage  and  wisdom — but  no;  duty,  order,  the  beliefs 
of  the  region  in  which  he  had  been  reared,  and  of 
America — what  it  expected  and  what  she  expected 
and  was  entitled  to — had  done  for  him  completely. 
He  had  not  spoken.  Instead,  he  had  gone  on  and 


FREE  19 

married  her  without  speaking  of  the  change  in  him 
self,  without  letting  her  know  how  worse  than  ashes  it 
had  all  become.  God,  what  a  fool  he  had  been!  how 
often  since  he  had  told  himself  over  and  over. 

Well,  having  made  a  mistake  it  was  his  duty  per 
haps,  at  least  according  to  current  beliefs,  to  stick  by 
it  and  make  the  best  of  it; — a  bargain  was  a  bargain 
in  marriage,  if  no  where  else — but  still  that  had  never 
prevented  him  from  being  unhappy.  He  could  not  pre 
vent  that  himself.  During  all  these  long  years,  there 
fore,  owing  to  these  same  conventions — what  people 
would  think  and  say — he  had  been  compelled  to  live 
with  her,  to  cherish  her,  to  pretend  to  be  happy  with 
her — "another  perfect  union,"  as  he  sometimes  said  to 
himself.  In  reality  he  had  been  unhappy,  horribly  so. 
Even  her  face  wearied  him  at  times,  and  her  presence, 
her  mannerisms.  Only  this  other  morning  Doctor 
Storm,  by  his  manner  indicating  that  he  thought  him 
lonely,  in  danger  of  being  left  all  alone  and  desperately 
sad  and  neglected  in  case  she  died  had  irritated  him 
greatly.  Who  would  take  care  of  him?  his  eyes  had 
seemed  to  say — and  yet  he  himself  wanted  nothing 
so  much  as  to  be  alone  for  a  time,  at  least,  in  this  life, 
to  think  for  himself,  to  do  for  himself,  to  forget  this 
long,  dreary  period  in  which  he  had  pretended  to  be 
something  that  he  was  not. 

Was  he  never  to  be  rid  of  the  dull  round  of  it,  he 
asked  himself  now,  never  before  he  himself  died? 
And  yet  shortly  afterward  he  would  reproach  himself 
for  these  very  thoughts,  as  being  wrong,  hard,  un 
kind; — thoughts  that  would  certainly  condemn  him 
in  the  eyes  of  the  general  public,  that  public  which 


20  FREE 

made  reputations  and  one's  general  standing  before  the 
world. 

During  all  this  time  he  had  never  even  let  her 
know — no,  not  once — of  the  tremendous  and  soul- 
crushing  sacrifice  he  had  made.  Like  the  Spartan  boy, 
he  had  concealed  the  fox  gnawing  at  his  vitals.  He 
had  not  complained.  He  had  been,  indeed,  the  model 
husband,  as  such  things  go  in  conventional  walks.  If 
you  doubted  it  look  at  his  position,  or  that  of  his  chil 
dren;  or  his  wife — her  mental  and  physical  comfort, 
even  in  her  illness,  her  unfailing  belief  that  he  was  all 
he  should  be !  Never  once  apparently,  during  all  these 
years,  had  she  doubted  his  love  or  felt  him  to  be  un 
duly  unhappy — or,  if  not  that  exactly,  if  not  fully 
accepting  his  love  as  something  that  was  still  at  a  fever 
heat,  the  thing  it  once  was — still  believing  that  he 
found  pleasure  and  happiness  in  being  with  her,  a  part 
of  the  home  which  together  they  had  built  up,  these 
children  they  had  reared,  comfort  in  knowing  that  it 
would  endure  to  the  end!  To  the  end!  During  all 
these  years  she  had  gone  on  molding  his  and  her  lives 
— as  much  as  that  was  possible  in  his  case — and  those 
of  their  children,  to  suit  herself;  and  thinking  all  the 
time  that  she  was  doing  what  he  wanted  or  at  least 
what  was  best  for  him  and  them. 

How  she  adored  convention!  What  did  she  not 
think  she  knew  in  regard  to  how  things  ought  to  be — 
mainly  what  her  old  home  surroundings  had  taught 
her,  the  American  idea  of  this,  that  and  the  other. 
Her  theories  in  regard  to  friends,  education  of  the  chil 
dren,  and  so  on,  had  in  the  main  prevailed,  even  when 
he  did  not  quite  agree  with  her ;  her  desires  for  certain 
types  of  pleasure  and  amusement,  of  companionship, 


FREE  21 

and  so  on,  were  conventional  types  always  and  had 
also  prevailed.  There  had  been  little  quarrels,  of 
course,  always  had  been — what  happy  home  is  free 
of  them? — but  still  he  had  always  given  in,  or  nearly 
always,  and  had  acted  as  though  he  were  satisfied  in 
so  doing. 

But  why,  therefore,  should  he  complain  now,  or  she 
ever  imagine,  or  ever  have  imagined,  that  he  was  un 
happy?  She  did  not,  had  not.  Like  all  their  rela 
tives  and  friends  of  the  region  from  which  they 
sprang,  and  here  also — and  she  had  been  most  careful 
to  regulate  that,  courting  whom  she  pleased  and  ig 
noring  all  others — she  still  believed  most  firmly,  more 
so  than  ever,  that  she  knew  what  was  best  for  him, 
what  he  really  thought  and  wanted.  It  made  him 
smile  most  wearily  at  times. 

For  in  her  eyes — in  regard  to  him,  at  least,  not  al 
ways  so  with  others,  he  had  found — marriage  was  a 
sacrament,  sacrosanct,  never  to  be  dissolved.  One  life, 
one  love.  Once  a  man  had  accepted  the  yoke  or  even 
asked  a  girl  to  marry  him  it  was  his  duty  to  abide 
by  it.  To  break  an  engagement,  to  be  unfaithful  to  a 
wife,  even  unkind  to  her — what  a  crime,  in  her  eyes ! 
Such  people  ought  to  be  drummed  out  of  the  world. 
They  were  really  not  fit  to  live — dogs,  brutes! 

And  yet,  look  at  himself — what  of  him?  What  of 
one  who  had  made  a  mistake  in  regard  to  all  this? 
Where  was  his  compensation  to  come  from,  his  peace 
and  happiness  ?  Here  on  earth  or  only  in  some  mythi 
cal  heaven — that  odd,  angelic  heaven  that  she  still 
believed  in  ?  What  a  farce !  And  all  her  friends  and 
his  would  think  he  would  be  so  miserable  now  if  she 
died,  or  at  least  ought  to  be.  So  far  had  asinine  con- 


22  FREE 

vention  and  belief  in  custom  carried  the  world.  Think 
of  it! 

But  even  that  was  not  the  worst.  No ;  that  was  not 
the  worst,  either.  It  had  been  the  gradual  realization 
coming  along  through  the  years  that  he  had  married  an 
essentially  small,  narrow  woman  who  could  never 
really  grasp  his  point  of  view — or,  rather,  the  signifi 
cance  of  his  dreams  or  emotions — and  yet  with  whom, 
nevertheless,  because  of  this  original  promise  or  mis 
take,  he  was  compelled  to  live.  Grant  her  every  quality 
of  goodness,  energy,  industry,  intent — as  he  did 
freely — still  there  was  this;  and  it  could  never  be 
adjusted,  never.  Essentially,  as  he  had  long  since  dis 
covered,  she  was  narrow,  ultraconventional,  whereas 
he  was  an  artist  by  nature,  brooding  and  dreaming 
strange  dreams  and  thinking  of  far-off  things  which 
she  did  not  or  could  not  understand  or  did  not  sympa 
thize  with,  save  in  a  general  and  very  remote  way. 
The  nuances  of  his  craft,  the  wonders  and  subtleties 
of  forms  and  angles — had  she  ever  realized  how  sig 
nificant  these  were  to  him,  let  alone  to  herself?  No, 
never.  She  had  not  the  least  true  appreciation  of 
them — never  had  had.  Architecture?  Art?  What 
could  they  really  mean  to  her,  desire  as  she  might  to 
appreciate  them?  And  he  could  not  now  go  else 
where  to  discover  that  sympathy.  No.  He  had  never 
really  wanted  to,  since  the  public  and  she  would  object, 
and  he  thinking  it  half  evil  himself. 

Still,  how  was  it,  he  often  asked  himself,  that  Nature 
could  thus  allow  one  conditioned  or  equipped  with 
emotions  and  seekings  such  as  his,  not  of  an  utterly 
conventional  order,  to  seek  out  and  pursue  one  like 
Ernestine,  who  was  not  fitted  to  understand  him  or 


FREE  23 

to  care  what  his  personal  moods  might  be  ?  Was  love 
truly  blind,  as  the  old  saw  insisted,  or  did  Nature  really 
plan,  and  cleverly,  to  torture  the  artist  mind — as  it  did 
the  pearl-bearing  oyster  with  a  grain  of  sand — with 
something  seemingly  inimical,  in  order  that  it  might 
produce  beauty?  Sometimes  he  thought  so.  Perhaps 
the  many  interesting  and  beautiful  buildings  he  had 
planned — the  world  called  them  so,  at  least — had  been 
due  to  the  loving  care  he  lavished  on  them,  being  shut 
out  from  love  and  beauty  elsewhere.  Cruel  Nature, 
that  cared  so  little  for  the  dreams  of  man — the  in 
dividual  man  or  woman ! 

At  the  time  he  had  married  Ernestine  he  was  really 
too  young  to  know  exactly  what  it  was  he  wanted  to 
do  or  how  it  was  he  was  going  to  feel  in  the  years  to 
come;  and  yet  there  was  no  one  to  guide  him,  to  stop 
him.  The  custom  of  the  time  was  all  in  favor  of  this 
dread  disaster.  Nature  herself  seemed  to  desire  it — 
mere  children  being  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  of  every 
thing  everywhere.  Think  of  that  as  a  theory !  Later, 
when  it  became  so  clear  to  him  what  he  had  done,  and 
in  spite  of  all  the  conventional  thoughts  and  conditions 
that  seemed  to  bind  him  to  this  fixed  condition,  he  had 
grown  restless  and  weary,  but  never  really  irritable. 
No,  he  had  never  become  that. 

Instead  he  had  concealed  it  all  from  her,  persist 
ently,  in  all  kindness;  only  this  hankering  after 
beauty  of  mind  and  body  in  ways  not  represented 
by  her  had  hurt  so — grown  finally  almost  too  pain 
ful  to  bear.  He  had  dreamed  and  dreamed  of 
something  different  until  it  had  become  almost  an  ob 
session.  Was  it  never  to  be,  that  something  different, 
never,  anywhere,  in  all  time  ?  What  a  tragedy !  Soon 


24  FREE 

he  would  be  dead  and  then  it  would  never  be  any 
where — anymore !  Ernestine  was  charming,  he  would 
admit,  or  had  been  at  first,  though  time  had  proved 
that  she  was  not  charming  to  him  either  mentally  or 
physically  in  any  compelling  way;  but  how  did  that 
help  him  now?  How  could  it?  He  had  actually 
found  himself  bored  by  her  for  more  than  twenty- 
seven  years  now,  and  this  other  dream  growing,  grow 
ing,  growing — until 

But  now  he  was  old,  and  she  was  dying,  or  might  be, 
and  it  could  not  make  so  much  difference  what  hap 
pened  to  him  or  to  her ;  only  it  could,  too,  because  he 
wanted  to  be  free  for  a  little  while,  just  for  a  little 
while,  before  he  died. 

To  be  free!  free! 

One  of  the  things  that  had  always  irritated  him 
about  Mrs.  Haymaker  was  this,  that  in  spite  of  his  de 
termination  never  to  offend  the  social  code  in  any 
way — he  had  felt  for  so  many  reasons,  emotional  as 
well  as  practical,  that  he  could  not  afford  so  to  do — 
and  also  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  tortured 
by  this  show  of  beauty  in  the  eyes  and  bodies  of  others, 
his  wife,  fearing  perhaps  in  some  strange  psychic  way 
that  he  might  change,  had  always  tried  to  make  him 
feel  or  believe — premeditatedly  and  of  a  purpose,  he 
thought — that  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
be  attractive  to  women;  that  he  lacked  some  physical 
fitness,  some  charm  that  other  men  had,  which  would 
cause  all  young  and  really  charming  women  to  turn 
away  from  him.  Think  of  it !  He  to  whom  so  many 
women  had  turned  with  questioning  eyes ! 

Also  that  she  had  married  him  largely  because  she 
had  felt  sorry  for  him!  He  chose  to  let  her  believe 


FREE  25 

that,  because  he  was  sorry  for  her.  Because  other 
women  had  seemed  to  draw  near  to  him  at  times  in 
some  appealing  or  seductive  way  she  had  insisted  that 
he  was  not  even  a  cavalier,  let  alone  a  Lothario;  that 
he  was  ungainly,  slow,  uninteresting — to  all  women 
but  her ! 

Persistently,  he  thought,  and  without  any  real  need, 
she  had  harped  on  this,  fighting  chimeras,  a  chance 
danger  in  the  future;  though  he  had  never  given  her 
any  real  reason,  and  had  never  even  planned  to  sin 
against  her  in  any  way — never.  She  had  thus  tried  to 
poison  his  own  mind  in  regard  to  himself  and  his  art — 

and  yet — and  yet Ah,  those  eyes  of  other  women, 

their  haunting  beauty,  the  flitting  something  they  said 
to  him  of  infinite,  inexpressible  delight.  Why  had  his 
life  been  so  very  hard? 

One  of  the  disturbing  things  about  all  this  was  the 
iron  truth  which  it  had  driven  home,  namely,  that 
Nature,  unless  it  were  expressed  or  represented  by 
some  fierce  determination  within,  which  drove  one 
to  do,  be,  cared  no  whit  for  him  or  any  other  man 
or  woman.  Unless  one  acted  for  oneself,  upon"  some 
stern  conclusion  nurtured  within,  one  might  rot  and 
die  spiritually.  Nature  did  not  care.  "Blessed  be  the 
meek" — yes.  Blessed  be  the  strong,  rather,  for  they 
made  their  own  happiness.  All  these  years  in  which 
he  had  dwelt  and  worked  in  this  knowledge,  hoping 
for  something  but  not  acting,  nothing  had  happened, 
except  to  him,  and  that  in  an  unsatisfactory  way.  All 
along  he  had  seen  what  was  happening  to  him;  and 
yet  held  by  convention  he  had  refused  to  act  always, 
because  somehow  he  was  not  hard  enough  to  act.  He 
was  not  strong  enough,  that  was  the  real  truth — 


26  FREE 

had  not  been.  Almost  like  a  bird  in  a  cage,  an 
animal  peeping  out  from  behind  bars,  he  had  viewed 
the  world  of  free  thought  and  freer  action.  In  many 
a  drawing-room,  on  the  street,  or  in  his  own  home 
even,  had  he  not  looked  into  an  eye,  the  face  of  some 
one  who  seemed  to  offer  understanding,  to  know,  to 
sympathize,  though  she  might  not  have,  of  course ;  and 
yet  religiously  and  moralistically,  like  an  anchorite, 
because  of  duty  and  current  belief  and  what  people 
would  say  and  think,  Ernestine's  position  and  faith 
in  him,  her  comfort,  his  career  and  that  of  the  chil 
dren — he  had  put  them  all  aside,  out  of  his  mind,  for 
gotten  them  almost,  as  best  he  might.  It  had  been 
hard  at  times,  and  sad,  but  so  it  had  been. 

And  look  at  him  now,  old,  not  exactly  feeble  yet — 
no,  not  that  yet,  not  quite! — but  life  weary  and  almost 
indifferent.  All  these  years  he  had  wanted,  wanted — 
wanted — an  understanding  mind,  a  tender  heart,  the 
some  one  woman — she  must  exist  somewhere — who 
would  have  sympathized  with  all  the  delicate  shades 
and  meanings  of  his  own  character,  his  art,  his  spirit 
ual  as  well  as  his  material  dreams And  yet  look 

at  him !  Mrs.  Haymaker  had  always  been  with  him, 
present  in  the  flesh  or  the  spirit,  and — so 

Though  he  could  not  ever  say  that  she  was  dis 
agreeable  to  him  in  a  material  way — he  could  not  say 
that  she  had  ever  been  that  exactly — still  she  did  not 

correspond  to  his  idea  of  what  he  needed,  and  so 

Form  had  meant  so  much  to  him,  color;  the  glorious 
perfectness  of  a  glorious  woman's  body,  for  instance, 
the  color  of  her  thoughts,  moods — exquisite  they  must 
be,  like  his  own  at  times;  but  no,  he  had  never  had 
the  opportunity  to  know  one  intimately.  No,  not  one, 


FREE  27 

though  he  had  dreamed  of  her  so  long.  He  had  never 
even  dared  whisper  this  to  any  one,  scarcely  to  himself. 
It  was  not  wise,  not  socially  fit.  Thoughts  like  this 
would  tend  to  social  ostracism  in  his  circle,  or  rather 
hers — for  had  she  not  made  the  circle  ? 

And  here  was  the  rub  with  Mr.  Haymaker,  at  least, 
that  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  whether  in  his  rest 
lessness  and  private  mental  complaints  he  were  not 
.even  now  guilty  of  a  great  moral  crime  in  so  thinking. 
Was  it  not  true  that  men  and  women  should  be  faith 
ful  in  marriage  whether  they  were  happy  or  not  ? 
Was  there  not  some  psychic  law  governing  this  mat 
ter  of  union — one  life,  one  love — which  made  the 
thoughts  and  the  pains  and  the  subsequent  sufferings 
and  hardships  of  the  individual,  whatever  they  might 
be,  seem  unimportant?  The  churches  said  so.  Pub 
lic  opinion  and  the  law  seemed  to  accept  this.  There 
were  so  many  problems,  so  much  order  to  be  disrupted, 
so  much  pain  caused,  many  insoluble  problems  where 
children  were  concerned — if  people  did  not  stick.  Was 
it  not  best,  more  blessed — socially,  morally,  and  in 
every  other  way  important — for  him  to  stand  by  a 
bad  bargain  rather  than  to  cause  so  much  disorder 
and  pain,  even  though  he  lost  his  own  soul  emotion 
ally  ?  He  had  thought  so — or  at  least  he  had  acted  as 

though  he  thought  so — and  yet How  often  had 

he  wondered  over  this ! 

Take,  now,  some  other  phases.  Granting  first  that 
Mrs.  Haymaker  had,  according  to  the  current  code, 
measured  up  to  the  requirements  of  a  wife,  good  and 
true,  and  that  at  first  after  marriage  there  had  been 
just  enough  of  physical  and  social  charm  about  her  to 
keep  his  state  from  becoming  intolerable,  still  there 


28  FREE 

was  this  old  ache ;  and  then  newer  things  which  came 
with  the  birth  of  the  several  children :  First  Elwell — 
named  after  a  cousin  of  hers,  not  his — who  had  died 
only  two  years  after  he  was  born;  and  then  Wesley; 
and  then  Ethelberta.  How  he  had  always  disliked 
that  name! — largely  because  he  had  hoped  to  call  her 
Ottilie,  a  favorite  name  of  his;  or  Janet,  after  his 
mother. 

Curiously  the  arrival  of  these  children  and  the  death 
of  poor  little  Elwell  at  two  had  somehow,  in  spite  of 
his  unrest,  bound  him  to  this  matrimonial  state  and 
filled  him  with  a  sense  of  duty,  and  pleasure  even — 
almost  entirely  apart  from  her,  he  was  sorry  to  say — 
in  these  young  lives;  though  if  there  had  not  been  chil 
dren,  as  he  sometimes  told  himself,  he  surely  would 
have  broken  away  from  her;  he  could  not  have  stood 
it.  They  were  so  odd  in  their  infancy,  those  little  ones, 
so  troublesome  and  yet  so  amusing — little  Elwell,  for 
instance,  whose  nose  used  to  crinkle  with  delight  when 
he  would  pretend  to  bite  his  neck,  and  whose  gurgle 
of  pleasure  was  so  sweet  and  heart-filling  that  it  posi 
tively  thrilled  and  lured  him.  In  spite  of  his  thoughts 
concerning  Ernestine — and  always  in  those  days  they 
were  rigidly  put  down  as  unmoral  and  even  evil,  a  cer 
tain  unsocial  streak  in  him  perhaps  which  was  against 
law  and  order  and  social  well-being — he  came  to  have 
a  deep  and  abiding  feeling  for  Elwell.  The  latter,  in 
some  chemic,  almost  unconscious  way,  seemed  to  have 
arrived  as  a  balm  to  his  misery,  a  bandage  for  his 
growing  wound — sent  by  whom,  by  what,  how?  El 
well  had  seized  upon  his  imagination,  and  so  his  heart 
strings — had  come,  indeed,  to  make  him  feel  under 
standing  and  sympathy  there  in  that  little  child;  to 


FREE  29 

supply,  or  seem  to  at  least,  what  he  lacked  in  the  way 
of  love  and  affection  from  one  whom  he  could  truly 
love.  Elwell  was  never  so  happy  apparently  as  when 
snuggling  in  his  arms,  not  Ernestine's,  or  lying  against 
his  neck.  And  when  he  went  for  a  walk  or  elsewhere 
there  was  Elwell  always  ready,  arms  up,  to  cling  to  his 
neck.  He  seemed,  strangely  enough,  inordinately  fond 
of  his  father,  rather  than  his  mother,  and  never  happy 
without  him.  On  his  part,  Haymaker  came  to  be 
wildly  fond  of  him — that  queer  little  lump  of  a  face, 
suggesting  a  little  of  himself  and  of  his  own  mother, 
not  so  much  of  Ernestine,  or  so  he  thought,  though 
he  would  not  have  objected  to  that.  Not  at  all.  He 
was  not  so  small  as  that.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
second  year,  when  Elwell  was  just  beginning  to  be  able 
to  utter  a  word  or  two,  he  had  taught  him  that  silly  old 
rhyme  which  ran  "There  were  three  kittens,"  and 

when  it  came  to  "and  they  shall  have  no "  he 

would  stop  and  say  to  Elwell,  "What  now  ?"  and  the 
latter  would  gurgle  "puh !" — meaning,  of  course,  pie. 

Ah,  those  happy  days  with  little  Elwell,  those  walks 
with  him  over  his  shoulder  or  on  his  arm,  those  hours 
in  which  of  an  evening  he  would  rock  him  to  sleep 
in  his  arms !  Always  Ernestine  was  there,  and  happy 
in  the  thought  of  his  love  for  little  Elwell  and  her,  her 
more  than  anything  else  perhaps;  but  it  was  an  illu 
sion — that  latter  part.  He  did  not  care  for  her  even 
then  as  she  thought  he  did.  All  his  fondness  was  for 
Elwell,  only  she  took  it  as  evidence  of  his  growing 
or  enduring  affection  for  her — another  evidence  of  the 
peculiar  working  of  her  mind.  Women  were  like 
that,  he  supposed — some  women. 

And  then  came  that  dreadful  fever,  due  to  some  in- 


30  FREE 

vading  microbe  which  the  doctors  could  not  diagnose 
or  isolate,  infantile  paralysis  perhaps ;  and  little  Elwell 
had  finally  ceased  to  be  as  flesh  and  was  eventually 
carried  forth  to  the  lorn,  disagreeable  graveyard  near 
Woodlawn.  How  he  had  groaned  internally,  in 
dulged  in  sad,  despondent  thoughts  concerning  the  fu 
tility  of  all  things  human,  when  this  had  happened !  It 
seemed  for  the  time  being  as  if  all  color  and  beauty 
had  really  gone  out  of  his  life  for  good. 

"Man  born  of  woman  is  of  few  days  and  full  of 
troubles,"  the  preacher  whom  Mrs.  Haymaker  had 
insisted  upon  having  into  the  house  at  the  time  of  the 
funeral  had  read.  "He  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow  and 
continueth  not." 

Yes;  so  little  Elwell  had  fled,  as  a  shadow,  and  in  his 
own  deep  sorrow  at  the  time  he  had  come  to  feel  the 
first  and  only  sad,  deep  sympathy  for  Ernestine  that 
he  had  ever  felt  since  marriage ;  and  that  because  she 
had  suffered  so  much — had  lain  in  his  arms  after  the 
funeral  and  cried  so  bitterly.  It  was  terrible,  her  sor 
row.  Terrible — a  mother  grieving  for  her  first-born! 
Why  was  it,  he  had  thought  at  the  time,  that  he  had 
never  been  able  to  think  or  make  her  all  she  ought  to 
be  to  him  ?  Ernestine  at  this  time  had  seemed  better, 
softer,  kinder,  wiser,  sweeter  than  she  had  ever 
seemed;  more  worthy,  more  interesting  than  ever  he 
had  thought  her  before.  She  had  slaved  so  during 
the  child's  illness,  stayed  awake  night  after  night, 
watched  over  him  with  such  loving  care — done  every 
thing,  in  short,  that  a  loving  human  heart  could  do 
to  rescue  her  young  from  the  depths ;  and  yet  even  then 
he  had  not  really  been  able  to  love  her.  No,  sad  and 
unkind  as  it  might  seem,  he  had  not.  He  had  just 


FREE  31 

pitied  her  and  thought  her  better,  worthier!  What 
cursed  stars  disordered  the  minds  and  moods  of  people 
so?  Why  was  it  that  these  virtues  of  people,  their 
good  qualities,  did  not  make  you  love  them,  did  not 
really  bind  them  to  you,  as  against  the  things  you 
could  not  like?  Why?  He  had  resolved  to  do  better 
in  his  thoughts,  but  somehow,  in  spite  of  himself,  he 
had  never  been  able  so  to  do. 

Nevertheless,  at  that  time  he  seemed  to  realize  more 
keenly  than  ever  her  order,  industry,  frugality,  a  sense 
of  beauty  within  limits,  a  certain  laudable  ambition  to 
do  something  and  be  somebody — only,  only  he  could 
not  sympathize  with  her  ambitions,  could  not  see  that 
she  had  anything  but  a  hopelessly  common-place  and 
always  unimportant  point  of  view.  There  was  never 
any  flare  to  her,  never  any  true  distinction  of  mind  or 
soul.  She  seemed  always,  in  spite  of  anything  he 
might  say  or  do,  hopelessly  to  identify  doing  and  being 
with  money  and  current  opinion — neighborhood  public 
opinion,  almost — and  local  social  position,  whereas  he 
knew  that  distinguished  doing  might  as  well  be  con 
nected  with  poverty  and  shame  and  disgrace  as  with 
these  other  things — wealth  and  station,  for  instance; 
a  thing  which  she  could  never  quite  understand  appar 
ently,  though  he  often  tried  to  tell  her,  much  against 
her  mood  always. 

Look  at  the  cases  of  the  great  artists!  Some  of  the 
greatest  architects  right  here  in  the  city,  or  in  history, 
were  of  peculiar,  almost  disagreeable,  history.  But 
no,  Mrs.  Haymaker  could  not  understand  anything 
like  that,  anything  connected  with  history,  indeed — 
she  hardly  believed  in  history,  its  dark,  sad  pages,  and 
would  never  read  it,  or  at  least  did  not  care  to.  And 


32  FREE 

as  for  art  and  artists — she  would  never  have  believed 
that  wisdom  and  art  understanding  and  true  distinc 
tion  might  take  their  rise  out  of  things  necessarily  low 
and  evil — never. 

Take  now,  the  case  of  young  Zingara.  Zingara  was 
an  architect  like  himself,  whom  he  had  met  more  than 
thirty  years  before,  here  in  New  York,  when  he  had 
first  arrived,  a  young  man  struggling  to  become  ah 
architect  of  significance,  only  he  was  very  poor  and 
rather  unkempt  and  disreputable-looking.  Haymaker 
had  found  him  several  years  before  his  marriage  to 
Ernestine  in  the  dark  offices  of  Pyne  &  Starboard, 
Architects,  and  had  been  drawn  to  him  definitely;  but 
because  he  smoked  all  the  time  and  was  shabby  as  to 
his  clothes  and  had  no  money — why,  Mrs.  Haymaker, 
after  he  had  married  her,  and  though  he  had  known 
Zingara  nearly  four  years,  would  have  none  of  him. 
To  her  he  was  low,  and  a  failure,  one  who  would  never 
succeed.  Once  she  had  seen  him  in  some  cheap  restau 
rant  that  she  chanced  to  be  passing,  in  company  with 
a  drabby-looking  maid,  and  that  was  the  end. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  bring  him  here  any  more, 
dear,"  she  had  insisted ;  and  to  have  peace  he  had  com 
plied — only,  now  look.  Zingara  had  since  become  a 
great  architect,  but  now  of  course,  owing  to  Mrs.  Hay 
maker,  he  was  definitely  alienated.  He  was  the  man 
who  had  since  designed  the  ylisculapian  Club;  and 
Symphony  Hall  with  its  delicate  f  agade ;  as  well  as  the 
tower  of  the  Wells  Building,  sending  its  sweet  lines 
so  high,  like  a  poetic  thought  or  dream.  But  Zingara 
was  now  a  dreamy  recluse  like  himself,  very  exclusive, 
as  Haymaker  had  long  since  come  to  know,  and  in 
different  as  to  what  people  thought  or  said. 


FREE  33 

But  perhaps  it  was  not  just  obtuseness  to  certain  of 
the  finer  shades  and  meanings  of  life,  but  an  irritating 
aggressiveness  at  times,  backed  only  by  her  limited 
understanding,  which  caused  her  to  seek  and  wish  to 
be  here,  there  and  the  other  place;  wherever,  in  her 
mind,  the  truly  successful — which  meant  nearly  always 
the  materially  successful  of  a  second  or  third  rate  char 
acter — were,  which  irritated  him  most  of  all.  How 
often  had  he  tried  to  point  out  the  difference  between 
true  and  shoddy  distinction — the  former  rarely  con 
nected  with  great  wealth. 

But  no.  So  often  she  seemed  to  imagine  such  queer 
people  to  be  truly  successful,  when  they  were  really 
not — usually  people  with  just  money,  or  a  very  little 
more. 

And  in  the  matter  of  rearing  and  educating  and 
marrying  their  two  children,  Wesley  and  Ethelberta, 
who  had  come  after  El  well — what  peculiar  pains  and 
feelings  had  not  been  involved  in  all  this  for  him.  In 
infancy  both  of  these  had  seemed  sweet  enough,  and 
so  close  to  him,  though  never  quite  so  wonderful  as 
Elwell.  But,  as  they  grew,  it  seemed  somehow  as 
though  Ernestine  had  come  between  him  and  them. 
First,  it  was  the  way  she  had  raised  them,  the  very 
stiff  and  formal  manner  in  which  they  were  sup 
posed  to  move  and  be,  copied  from  the  few  new-rich 
whom  she  had  chanced  to  meet  through  him — and 
admired  in  spite  of  his  warnings.  That  was  the  irony 
of  architecture  as  a  profession — it  was  always  bring 
ing  such  queer  people  close  to  one,  and  for  the  sake 
of  one's  profession,  sometimes,  particularly  in  the  case 
of  the  young  architect,  one  had  to  be  nice  to  them. 
Later,  it  was  the  kind  of  school  they  should  attend. 


34  FREE 

He  had  half  imagined  at  first  that  it  would  be  the 
public  school,  because  they  both  had  begun  as  simple 
people ;  but  no,  since  they  were  prospering  it  had  to  be 
a  private  school  for  each,  and  not  one  of  his  selection, 
either — or  hers,  really — but  one  to  which  the  Barlows 
and  the  Westervelts,  two  families  of  means  with  whom 
Ernestine  had  become  intimate,  sent  their  children 
and  therefore  thought  excellent! 

The  Barlows!  Wealthy,  but,  to  him,  gross  and 
mediocre  people  who  had  made  a  great  deal  of  money 
in  the  manufacture  of  patent  medicines  out  West,  and 
who  had  then  come  to  New  York  to  splurge,  and  had 
been  attracted  to  Ernestine — not  him  particularly,  he 
imagined — because  Haymaker  had  built  a  town  house 
for  them,  and  also  because  he  was  gaining  a  fine  repu 
tation.  They  were  dreadful  really,  so  gauche,  so  truly 
dull;  and  yet  somehow  they  seemed  to  suit  Ernestine's 
sense  of  fitness  and  worth  at  the  time,  because,  as 
she  said,  they  were  good  and  kind — like  her  Western 
home  folks;  only  they  were  not  really.  She  just  im 
agined  so.  They  were  worthy  enough  people  in  their 
way,  though  with  no  taste.  Young  Fred  Barlow  had 
been  sent  to  the  expensive  Gaillard  School  for  Boys, 
near  Morristown,  where  they  were  taught  manners  and 
airs,  and  little  else,  as  Haymaker  always  thought, 
though  Ernestine  insisted  that  they  were  given  a  reli 
gious  training  as  well.  And  so  Wesley  had  to  go  there 
— for  a  time,  anyhow.  It  was  the  best  school. 

And  similarly,  because  Mercedes  Westervelt,  sense 
less,  vain  little  thing,  was  sent  to  Briarcliff  School, 
near  White  Plains,  Ethelberta  had  to  go  there.  Think 
of  it !  It  was  all  so  silly,  so  pushing.  How  well  he  re 
membered  the  long,  delicate  campaign  which  preceded 


FREE  35 

this,  the  logic  and  tactics  employed,  the  importance 
of  it  socially  to  Ethelberta,  the  tears  and  cajolery. 
Mrs.  Haymaker  could  always  cry  so  easily,  or  seem  to 
be  on  the  verge  of  it,  when  she  wanted  anything;  and 
somehow,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  knew  her  tears 
were  unimportant,  or  timed  and  for  a  purpose,  he 
could  never  stand  out  against  them,  and  she  knew  it. 
Always  he  felt  moved  or  weakened  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  had  no  weapon  wherewith  to  fight  them,  though  he 
resented  them  as  a  part  of  the  argument.  Positively 
Mrs.  Haymaker  could  be  as  sly  and  as  ruthless  as 
Machiavelli  himself  at  times,  and  yet  believe  all  the 
while  that  she  was  tender,  loving,  self-sacrificing,  gen 
erous,  moral  and  a  dozen  other  things,  all  of  which  led 
to  the  final  achievement  of  her  own  aims.  Perhaps 
this  was  admirable  from  one  point  of  view,  but  it  irri 
tated  him  always.  But  if  one  were  unable  to  see  him- 
or  herself,  their  actual  disturbing  inconsistencies,  what 
were  you  to  do? 

And  again,  he  had  by  then  been  married  so  long 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  think  of  throwing 
her  over,  or  so  it  seemed  at  the  time.  They  had 
reached  the  place  then  where  they  had  supposedly 
achieved  position  together,  though  in  reality  it  was 
all  his — and  not  such  position  as  he  was  entitled  to, 
at  that.  Ernestine — and  he  was  thinking  this  in  all 
kindness — could  never  attract  the  ideal  sort.  And 
anyhow,  the  mere  breath  of  a  scandal  between  them, 
separation  or  unfaithfulness,  which  he  never  really 
contemplated,  would  have  led  to  endless  bickering  and 
social  and  commercial  injury,  or  so  he  thought.  All 
her  strong  friends — and  his,  in  a  way — those  who  had 
originally  been  his  clients,  would  have  deserted  him. 


36  FREE 

Their  wives,  their  own  social  fears,  would  have  com 
pelled  them  to  ostracize  him!  He  would  have  been 
a  scandal-marked  architect,  a  brute  for  objecting  to 
so  kind  and  faithful  and  loving  a  wife.  And  per 
haps  he  would  have  been,  at  that.  He  could  never 
quite  tell,  it  was  all  so  mixed  and  tangled. 

Take,  again,  the  marriage  of  his  son  Wesley  into 
the  De  Gaud  family — George  de  Gaud  pere  being  noth 
ing  more  than  a  retired  real-estate  speculator  and  pro 
moter  who  had  money,  but  nothing  more;  and  Irma 
de  Gaud,  the  daughter,  being  a  gross,  coarse,  sensu 
ous  girl,  physically  attractive  no  doubt,  and  financially 
reasonably  secure,  or  so  she  had  seemed;  but  what 
else?  Nothing,  literally  nothing;  and  his  son  had 
seemed  to  have  at  least  some  spiritual  ideals  at  first. 
Ernestine  had  taken  up  with  Mrs.  George  de  Gaud — 
a  miserable,  narrow  creature,  so  Haymaker  thought — 
largely  for  Wesley's  sake,  he  presumed.  Anyhow, 
everything  had  been  done  to  encourage  Wesley  in  his 
suit  and  Irma  in  her  toleration,  and  now  look  at  them ! 
De  Gaud  pere  had  since  failed  and  left  his  daughter 
practically  nothing.  Irma  had  been  interested  in  any 
thing  but  Wesley's  career,  had  followed  what  she  con 
sidered  the  smart  among  the  new-rich — a  smarter, 
wilder,  newer  new-rich  than  ever  Ernestine  had  fan 
cied,  or  could.  To-day  she  was  without  a  thought  for 
anything  besides  teas  and  country  clubs  and  theaters 
— and  what  else  ? 

And  long  since  Wesley  had  begun  to  realize  it  him 
self.  He  was  an  engineer  now,  in  the  employ  of  one 
of  the  great  construction  companies,  a  moderately  suc 
cessful  man.  But  even  Ernestine,  who  had  engineered 
the  match  and  thought  it  wonderful,  was  now  down 


FREE  37 

on  her.  She  had  begun  to  see  through  her  some  years 
ago,  when  Irma  had  begun  to  ignore  her;  only  before 
it  was  always  the  De  Gauds  here,  and  the  De  Gauds 
there.  Good  gracious,  what  more  could  any  one  want 
than  the  De  Gauds — Irma  de  Gaud,  for  instance  ? 
Then  came  the  concealed  dissension  between  Irma  and 
Wesley,  and  now  Mrs.  Haymaker  insisted  that  Irma 
had  held,  and  was  holding  Wesley  back.  She  was  not 
the  right  woman  for  him.  Almost — against  all  her 
prejudices — she  was  willing  that  he  should  leave  her. 
Only,  if  Haymaker  had  broached  anything  like  that 
in  connection  with  himself! 

And  yet  Mrs.  Haymaker  had  been  determined,  be 
cause  of  what  she  considered  the  position  of  the  De 
Gauds  at  that  time,  that  Wesley  should  marry  Irma», 
Wesley  now  had  to  slave  at  mediocre  tasks  in  order  to 
have  enough  to  allow  Irma  to  run  in  so-called  fast 
society  of  a  second  or  third  rate.  And  even  at  that 
she  was  not  faithful  to  him — or  so  Haymaker  believed. 
There  were  so  many  strange  evidences.  And  yet 
Haymaker  felt  that  he  did  not  care  to  interfere  now. 
How  could  he?  Irma  was  tired  of  Wesley,  and  that 
was  all  there  was  to  it.  She  was  looking  elsewhere, 
he  was  sure. 

Take  but  one  more  case,  that  of  Ethelberta.  What 
a  name!  In  spite  of  all  Ernestine's  determination  to 
make  her  so  successful  and  thereby  reflect  some  credit 
on  her  had  she  really  succeeded  in  so  doing?  To  be 
sure,  Ethelberta's  marriage  was  somewhat  more  suc 
cessful  financially  than  Wesley's  had  proved  to  be, 
but  was  she  any  better  placed  in  other  ways?  John 
Kelso — "Jack,"  as  she  always  called  him — with  his 
light  ways  and  lighter  mind,  was  he  really  any  one ! — 


38  FREE 

anything  more  than  a  waster?  His  parents  stood  by 
him  no  doubt,  but  that  was  all ;  and  so  much  the  worse 
for  him.  According  to  Mrs.  Haymaker  at  the  time, 
he,  too,  was  an  ideal  boy,  admirable,  just  the  man  for 
Ethelberta,  because  the  Kelsos,  pere  and  mere,  had 
money.  Horner  Kelso  had  made  a  kind  of  fortune 
in  Chicago  in  the  banknote  business,  and  had  settled 
in  New  York,  about  the  time  that  Ethelberta  was  fif 
teen,  to  spend  it.  Ethelberta  had  met  Grace  Kelso  at 
school. 

And  now  see!  She  was  not  unattractive,  and  had 
some  pleasant,  albeit  highly  affected,  social  ways;  she 
had  money,  and  a  comfortable  apartment  in  Park  Ave 
nue;  but  what  had  it  all  come  to?  John  Kelso  had 
never  done  anything  really,  nothing.  His  parents' 
money  and  indulgence  and  his  early  training  for  a 
better  social  state  had  ruined  him  if  he  had  ever  had 
a  mind  that  amounted  to  anything.  He  was  idle, 
pleasure-loving,  mentally  indolent,  like  Irma  de  Gaud. 
Those  two  should  have  met  and  married,  only  they 
could  never  have  endured  each  other.  But  how  Mrs. 
Haymaker  had  courted  the  Kelsos  in  her  eager  and 
yet  diplomatic  way,  giving  teas  and  receptions  and 
theater  parties;  and  yet  he  had  never  been  able  to  ex 
change  ten  significant  words  with  either  of  them,  or 
the  younger  Kelsos  either.  Think  of  it! 

And  somehow  in  the  process  Ethelberta,  for  all  his 
early  affection  and  tenderness  and  his  still  kindly  feel 
ing  for  her,  had  been  weaned  away  from  him  and  had 
proved  a  limited  and  conventional  girl,  somewhat  like 
her  mother,  and  more  inclined  to  listen  to  her  than  to 
him — though  he  had  not  minded  that  really.  It  had 
been  the  same  with  Wesley  before  her.  Perhaps,  how- 


FREE  39 

ever,  a  child  was  entitled  to  its  likes  and  dislikes,  re 
gardless. 

But  why  had  he  stood  for  it  all,  he  now  kept  asking 
himself.  Why?  What  grand  results,  if  any,  had  been 
achieved?  Were  their  children  so  wonderful? — their 
lives?  Would  he  not  have  been  better  off  without 
her — his  children  better,  even,  by  a  different  woman? 
—hers  by  a  different  man?  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
better  if  he  had  destroyed  it  all,  broken  away? 
There  would  have  been  pain,  of  course,  terrible 
consequences,  but  even  so  he  would  have  been 
free  to  go,  to  do,  to  reorganize  his  life  on  another 
basis.  Zingara  had  avoided  marriage  entirely — wise 
man.  But  no,  no;  always  convention,  that  long  list 
of  reasons  and  terrors  he  was  always  reciting  to  him 
self.  He  had  allowed  himself  to  be  pulled  round  by 
the  nose,  God  only  knows  why,  and  that  was  all  there 
was  to  it.  Weakness,  if  you  will,  perhaps;  fear  of 
convention;  fear  of  what  people  would  think  and  say. 

Always  now  he  found  himself  brooding  over  the 
dire  results  to  him  of  all  this  respect  on  his  part  for 
convention,  moral  order,  the  duty  of  keeping  society 
on  an  even  keel,  of  not  bringing  disgrace  to  his  chil 
dren  and  himself  and  her,  and  yet  ruining  his  own  life 
emotionally  by  so  doing.  To  be  respectable  had  been 
so  important  that  it  had  resulted  in  spiritual  failure 
for  him.  But  now  all  that  was  over  with  him,  and 
Mrs.  Haymaker  was  ill,  near  to  death,  and  he  was 
expected  to  wish  her  to  get  well,  and  be  happy  with  her 
for  a  long  time  yet !  Be  happy !  In  spite  of  anything 
he  might  wish  or  think  he  ought  to  do,  he  couldn't. 
He  couldn't  even  wish  her  to  get  well. 

It  was  too  much  to  ask.     There  was  actually  a 


40  FREE 

haunting  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  she  might 
die  now.  It  wouldn't  be  much,  but  it  would  be  some 
thing — a  few  years  of  freedom.  That  was  something. 
He  was  not  utterly  old  yet,  and  he  might  have  a  few 
years  of  peace  and  comfort  to  himself  still — and — 

and- That  dream — that  dream — though  it  might 

never  come  true  now — it  couldn't  really — still — still 

He  wanted  to  be  free  to  go  his  own  way  once 

more,  to  do  as  he  pleased,  to  walk,  to  think,  to  brood 
over  what  he  had  not  had — to  brood  over  what  he  had 
not  had !  Only,  only,  whenever  he  looked  into  her 
pale  sick  face  and  felt  her  damp  limp  hands  he  could 
not  quite  wish  that,  either;  not  quite,  not  even  now. 

It  seemed  too  hard,  too  brutal — only — only So 

he  wavered. 

No;  in  spite  of  her  long-past  stn%gle  over  foolish 
things  and  in  spite  of  himself  and  all  he  had  endured 
or  thought  he  had,  he  was  still  willing  that  she  should 
live;  only  he  couldn't  wish  it  exactly.  Yes,  let  her 
live  if  she  could.  What  matter  to  him  now  whether 
she  lived  or  died?  Whenever  he  looked  at  her  he 
could  not  help  thinking  how  helpless  she  would  be 
without  him,  what  a  failure  at  her  age,  and  so  on. 
And  all  along,  as  he  wryly  repeated  to  himself,  she 
had  been  thinking  and  feeling  that  she  was  doing  the 
very  best  for  him  and  her  and  the  children! — that 
she  was  really  the  ideal  wife  for  him,  making  every 
dollar  go  as  far  as  it  would,  every  enjoyment  yield 
the  last  drop  for  them  all,  every  move  seeming  to  have 
been  made  to  their  general  advantage !  Yes,  that  was 
true.  There  was  a  pathos  about  it,  wasn't  there  ?  But 
as  for  the  actual  results ! 

The  next  morning,  the  second  after  his  talk  with 


FREE  41 

Doctor  Storm,  found  him  sitting  once  more  beside 
his  front  window  in  the  early  dawn,  and  so  much 
of  all  this,  and  much  more,  was  coming  back  to  him, 
as  before.  For  the  thousandth  or  the  ten-thousandth 
time,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  in  all  the  years  that  had 
gone,  he  was  concluding  again  that  his  life  was  a 
failure.  If  only  he  were  free  for  a  little  while  just 
to  be  alone  and  think,  perhaps  to  discover  what  life 
might  bring  him  yet;  only  on  this  occasion  his 
thoughts  were  colored  by  a  new  turn  in  the  situation. 
Yesterday  afternoon,  because  Mrs.  Haymaker's  con 
dition  had  grown  worse,  the  consultation  between 
Grainger  and  Storm  was  held,  and  to-day  some 
time  transfusion  was  to  be  tried,  that  last  grim 
stand  taken  by  physicians  in  distress  over  a  case ;  blood 
taken  from  a  strong  ex-cavalryman  out  of  a  position, 
in  this  case,  and  the  best  to  be  hoped  for,  but  not  as 
sured.  In  this  instance  his  thoughts  were  as  before 
wavering.  Now  supposing  she  really  died,  in  spite 
of  this?  What  would  he  think  of  himself  then?  He 
went  back  after  a  time  and  looked  in  on  her  where  she 
was  still  sleeping.  Now  she  was  not  so  strong  as  be 
fore,  or  so  she  seemed;  her  pulse  was  not  so  good, 
the  nurse  said.  And  now  as  before  his  mood  changed 
in  her  favor,  but  only  for  a  little  while.  For  later, 
waking,  she  seemed  to  look  and  feel  better. 

Later  he  came  up  to  the  dining  room,  where  the 
nurse  was  taking  her  breakfast,  and  seating  himself 
beside  her,  as  was  his  custom  these  days,  asked :  "How 
do  you  think  she  is  to-day?" 

He  and  the  night  nurse  had  thus  had  their  break 
fasts  together  for  days.  This  nurse,  Miss  Filson,  was 
such  a  smooth,  pink,  graceful  creature,  with  light  hair 


42  FREE 

and  blue  eyes,  the  kind  of  eyes  and  color  that  of  late, 
and  in  earlier  years,  had  suggested  to  him  the  love 
time  or  youth  that  he  had  missed. 

The  latter  looked  grave,  as  though  she  really  feared 
the  worst  but  was  concealing  it. 

"No  worse,  I  think,  and  possibly  a  little  better," 
she  replied,  eying  him  sympathetically.  He  could  see 
that  she  too  felt  that  he  was  old  and  in  danger  of  being 
neglected.  "Her  pulse  is  a  little  stronger,  nearly  nor 
mal  now,  and  she  is  resting  easily.  Doctor  Storm  and 
Doctor  Grainger  are  coming,  though,  at  ten.  Then 
they'll  decide  what's  to  be  done.  I  think  if  she's  worse 
that  they  are  going  to  try  transfusion.  The  man  has 
been  engaged.  Doctor  Storm  said  that  when  she  woke 
to-day  she  was  to  be  given  strong  beef  tea.  Mrs. 
Elfridge  is  making  it  new.  The  fact  that  she  is  not 
much  worse,  though,  is  a  good  sign  in  itself,  I  think." 

Haymaker  merely  stared  at  her  from  under  his 
heavy  gray  eyebrows.  He  was  so  tired  and  gloomy, 
not  only  because  he  had  not  slept  much  of  late  him 
self  but  because  of  this  sawing  to  and  fro  between 
his  varying  moods.  Was  he  never  to  be  able  to  de 
cide  for  himself  what  he  really  wished  ?  Was  he  never 
to  be  done  with  this  interminable  moral  or  spiritual 
problem?  Why  could  he  not  make  up  his  mind 
on  the  side  of  moral  order,  sympathy,  and  be  at 
peace  ?  Miss  Filson  pattered  on  about  other  heart 
cases,  how  so  many  people  lived  years  and  years  after 
they  were  supposed  to  die  of  heart  lesion ;  and  he  medi 
tated  as  to  the  grayness  and  strangeness  of  it  all,  the 
worthlessness  of  his  own  life,  the  variability  of  his 
own  moods.  Why  was  he  so?  How  queer — how 
almost  evil,  sinister — he  had  become  at  times;  how 


FREE  43 

weak  at  others.  Last  night  as  he  had  looked  at 
Ernestine  lying  in  bed,  and  this  morning  before  he 
had  seen  her,  he  had  thought  if  she  only  would  die 
— if  he  were  only  really  free  once  more,  even  at  this 
late  date.  But  then  when  he  had  seen  her  again 
this  morning  and  now  when  Miss  Filson  spoke  of 
transfusion,  he  felt  sorry  again.  What  good  would 
it  do  him  now?  Why  should  he  want  to  kill  her? 
Could  such  evil  ideas  go  unpunished  either  in  this 
world  or  the  next?  Supposing  his  children  could 
guess!  Supposing  she  did  die  now — and  he  wished  it 
so  fervently  only  this  morning — how  would  he  feel? 
After  all,  Ernestine  had  not  been  so  bad.  She  had 
tried,  hadn't  she  ? — only  she  had  not  been  able  to  make 
a  success  of  things,  as  he  saw  it,  and  he  had  not  been 
able  to  love  her,  that  was  all.  He  reproached  him 
self  once  more  now  with  the  hardness  and  the  cruelty 
of  his  thoughts. 

The  opinion  of  the  two  physicians  was  that  Mrs. 
Haymaker  was  not  much  better  and  that  this  first 
form  of  blood  transfusion  must  be  resorted  to — in 
jected  straight  via  a  pump — which  should  restore  her 
greatly  provided  her  heart  did  not  bleed  it  out  too 
freely.  Before  doing  so,  however,  both  men  once 
more  spoke  to  Haymaker,  who  in  an  excess  of  self- 
condemnation  insisted  that  no  expense  must  be  spared. 
If  her  life  was  in  danger,  save  it  by  any  means — all- 
It  wras  precious  to  her,  to  him  and  to  her  children. 
So  he  spoke.  Thus  he  felt  that  he  was  lending  every 
force  which  could  be  expected  of  him,  aside  from 
fervently  wishing  for  her  recovery,  which  even  now, 
in  spite  of  himself,  he  could  not  do.  He  was  too 
weary  of  it  all,  the  conventional  round  of  duties  and 


44  FREE 

obligations.  But  if  she  recovered,  as  her  physicians 
seemed  to  think  she  might  if  transfusion  were  tried, 
if  she  gained  even,  it  would  mean  that  he  would  have 
to  take  her  away  for  the  summer  to  some  quiet  moun 
tain  resort — to  be  with  her  hourly  during  the  long 
period  in  which  she  would  be  recovering.  Well,  he 
would  not  complain  now.  That  was  all  right.  He 
would  do  it.  He  would  be  bored  of  course,  as  usual, 
but  it  would  be  too  bad  to  have  her  die  when  she  could 
be  saved.  Yes,  that  was  true.  And  yet— 

He  went  down  to  his  office  again  and  in  the  mean 
time  this  first  form  of  transfusion  was  tried,  and 
proved  a  great  success,  apparently.  She  was  much 
better,  so  the  day  nurse  phoned  at  three;  very  much 
better.  At  five-thirty  Mr.  Haymaker  returned,  no  un 
satisfactory  word  having  come  in  the  interim,  and 
there  she  was,  resting  on  a  raised  pillow,  if  you  please, 
and  looking  so  cheerful,  more  like  her  old  self  than 
he  had  seen  her  in  some  time. 

At  once  then  his  mood  changed  again.  They  were 
amazing,  these  variations  in  his  own  thoughts,  almost 
chemic,  not  volitional,  decidedly  peculiar  for  a  man 
who  was  supposed  to  know  his  own  mind — only  did 
one,  ever?  Now  she  would  not  die.  Now  the  whole 
thing  would  go  on  as  before.  He  was  sure  of  it. 
Well,  he  might  as  well  resign  himself  to  the  old  sense 
of  failure.  He  would  never  be  free  now.  Every 
thing  would  go  on  as  before,  the  next  and  the  next 
day  the  same.  Terrible!  Though  he  seemed  glad 
— really  grateful,  in  a  way,  seeing  her  cheerful  and 
hopeful  once  more — still  the  obsession  of  failure  and 
being  once  more  bound  forever  returned  now.  In 
his  own  bed  at  midnight  he  said  to  himself:  "Now 


FREE  45 

she  will  really  get  well.  All  will  be  as  before.  I 
will  never  be  free.  I  will  never  have  a  day — a  day! 
Never!" 

But  the  next  morning,  to  his  surprise  and  fear  or 
comfort,  as  his  moods  varied,  she  was  worse  again; 
and  then  once  more  he  reproached  himself  for  his 
black  thoughts.  Was  he  not  really  killing  her  by 
.what  he  thought?  he  asked  himself — these  constant 
changes  in  his  mood?  Did  not  his  dark  wishes  have 
power?  Was  he  not  as  good  as  a  murderer  in  his 
way?  Think,  if  he  had  always  to  feel  from  now  on 
that  he  had  killed  her  by  wishing  so!  Would  not 
that  be  dreadful — an  awful  thing  really?  Why  was 
he  this  way?  Could  he  not  be  human,  kind? 

When  Doctor  Storm  came  at  nine-thirty,  after  a 
telephone  call  from  the  nurse,  and  looked  grave  and 
spoke  of  horses'  blood  as  being  better,  thicker  than 
human  blood — not  so  easily  bled  out  of  the  heart  when 
injected  as  a  serum — Haymaker  was  beside  himself 
with  self-reproaches  and  sad,  disturbing  fear.  His 
dark,  evil  thoughts  of  last  night  and  all  these  days  had 
done  this,  he  was  sure.  Was  he  really  a  murderer  at 
heart,  a  dark  criminal,  plotting  her  death? — and  for 
what  ?  Why  had  he  wished  last  night  that  she  would 
die?  Her  case  must  be  very  desperate. 

"You  must  do  your  best,"  he  now  said  to  Doctor 
Storm.  "Whatever  is  needful — she  must  not  die  if 
you  can  help  it." 

"No,    Mr.    Haymaker,"   returned   the   latter   sym-' 
pathetically.    "All  that  can  be  done  will  be  done.    You 
need  not  fear.     I  have  an  idea  that  we  didn't  inject 
enough  yesterday,  and  anyhow  human  blood  is  not 


46  FREE 

thick  enough  in  this  case.  She  responded,  but  not 
enough.  We  will  see  what  we  can  do  to-day." 

Haymaker,  pressed  with  duties,  went  away,  sub 
dued  and  sad.  Now  once  more  he  decided  that  he  must 
not  tolerate  these  dark  ideas  any  more,  must  rid  him 
self  of  these  black  wishes,  whatever  he  might  feel. 
It  was  evil.  They  would  eventually  come  back  to  him 
in  some  dark  way,  he  might  be  sure.  They  might  be 
influencing  her.  She  must  be  allowed  to  recover  if 
she  could  without  any  opposition  on  his  part.  He 
must  now  make  a  further  sacrifice  of  his  own  life, 
whatever  it  cost.  It  was  only  decent,  only  human. 
Why  should  he  complain  now,  anyhow,  after  all  these 
years !  What  difference  would  a  few  more  years 
make?  He  returned  at  evening,  consoled  by  his  own 
good  thoughts  and  a  telephone  message  at  three  to 
the  effect  that  his  wife  was  much  better.  This  second 
injection  had  proved  much  more  effective.  Horses' 
blood  was  plainly  better  for  her.  She  was  stronger, 
and  sitting  up  again.  He  entered  at  five,  and  found 
her  lying  there  pale  and  weak,  but  still  with  a  better 
light  in  her  eye,  a  touch  of  color  in  her  cheeks — or 
so  he  thought — more  force,  and  a  very  faint  smile  for 
him,  so  marked  had  been  the  change.  How  great 
and  kind  Doctor  Storm  really  was!  How  resource 
ful!  If  she  would  only  get  well  now!  -If  this  dread 
siege  would  only  abate!  Doctor  Storm  was  coming 
again  at  eight. 

"Well,  how  are  you,  dear?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
him  sweetly  and  lovingly,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers. 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead — a  Judas  kiss,  he 
had  thought  up  to  now,  but  not  so  to-night.  To-night 
he  was  kind,  generous — anxious,  even,  for  her  to  live. 


FREE  47 

"All  right,  dearest;  very  good  indeed.  And  how 
are  you?  It's  such  a  fine  evening  out.  You  ought 
to  get  well  soon  so  as  to  enjoy  these  spring  days." 

"I'm  going  to,"  she  replied  softly.  "I  feel  so  much 
better.  And  how  have  you  been?  Has  your  work 
gone  all  right?" 

He  nodded  and  smiled  and  told  her  bits  of  news. 
Ethelberta  had  phoned  that  she  was  coming,  bring 
ing  violets.  Wesley  had  said  he  would  be  here  at  six, 
with  Irma!  Such-and-such  people  had  asked  after 
her.  How  could  he  have  been  so  evil,  he  now  asked 
himself,  as  to  wish  her  to  die  ?  She  was  not  so  bad — 
really  quite  charming  in  her  way,  an  ideal  wife  for 
some  one,  if  not  him.  She  was  as  much  entitled  to 
live  and  enjoy  her  life  as  he  was  to  enjoy  his;  and 
after  all  she  was  the  mother  of  his  children,  had  been 
with  him  all  these  years.  Besides,  the  day  had  been 
so  fine — it  was  now — a  wondrous  May  evening.  The 
air  and  sky  were  simply  delicious.  A  lavender  haze 
was  in  the  air.  The  telephone  bell  now  ringing 
brought  still  another  of  a  long  series  of  inquiries  as  to 
her  condition.  There  had  been  so  many  of  these  dur 
ing  the  last  few  days,  the  maid  said,  and  especially 
to-day — and  she  gave  Mr.  Haymaker  a  list  of  names. 
See,  he  thought,  she  had  even  more  friends  than  he, 
being  so  good,  faithful,  worthy.  Why  should  he  wish 
her  ill? 

He  sat  down  to  dinner  with  Ethelberta  and  Wesley 
when  they  arrived,  and  chatted  quite  gayly — more 
hopefully  than  he  had  in  weeks.  His  own  varying 
thoughts  no  longer  depressing  him,  for  the  moment  he 
was  happy.  How  were  they?  What  were  the  chil 
dren  all  doing?  At  eight-thirty  Doctor  Storm  came 


48  FREE 

again,  and  announced  that  he  thought  Mrs.  Haymaker 
was  doing  very  well  indeed,  all  things  considered. 

"Her  condition  is  fairly  promising,  I  must  say,"  he 
said.  "If  she  gets  through  another  night  or  two  com 
fortably  without  falling  back  I  think  she'll  do  very 
well  from  now  on.  Her  strength  seems  to  be  increas 
ing  a  fraction.  However,  we  must  not  be  too  op 
timistic.  Cases  of  this  kind  are  very  treacherous. 
To-morrow  we'll  see  how  she  feels,  whether  she  needs 
any  more  blood." 

He  went  away,  and  at  ten  Ethelberta  and  Wesley 
left  for  the  night,  asking  to  be  called  if  she  grew 
worse,  thus  leaving  him  alone  once  more.  He 
sat  and  meditated.  At  eleven,  after  a  few  moments 
at  his  wife's  bedside — absolute  quiet  had  been  the 
doctor's  instructions  these  many  days — he  himself 
went  to  bed.  He  was  very  tired.  His  varying 
thoughts  had  afflicted  him  so  much  that  he  was  always 
tired,  it  seemed — his  evil  conscience,  he  called  it — 
but  to-night  he  was  sure  he  would  sleep.  He  felt  bet 
ter  about  himself,  about  life.  He  had  done  better, 
to-day.  He  should  never  have  tolerated  such  dark 
thoughts.  And  yet — and  yet — and  yet 

He  lay  on  his  bed  near  a  window  which  commanded 
a  view  of  a  small  angle  of  the  park,  and  looked  out. 
There  were  the  spring  trees,  as  usual,  silvered  now 
by  the  light,  a  bit  of  lake  showing  at  one  end.  Here 
in  the  city  a  bit  of  sylvan  scenery  such  as  this  was  so 
rare  and  so  expensive.  In  his  youth  he  had  been 
so  fond  of  water,  any  small  lake  or  stream  or  pond. 
In  his  youth,  also,  he  had  loved  the  moon,  and  to  walk 
in  the  dark.  It  had  all,  always,  been  so  suggestive 
of  love  and  happiness,  and  he  had  so  craved  love  and 


FREE  49 

happiness  and  never  had  it.  Once  he  had  designed 
a  yacht  club,  the  base  of  which  suggested  waves.  Once, 
years  ago,  he  had  thought  of  designing  a  lovely  cot 
tage  or  country  house  for  himself  and  some  new  love 
— that  wonderful  one — if  ever  she  came  and  he  were 
free.  How  wonderful  it  would  all  have  been.  Now — 
now — the  thought  at  such  an  hour  and  especially  when 
it  was  too  late,  seemed  sacrilegious,  hard,  cold,  un 
moral,  evil.  He  turned  his  face  away  from  the  moon 
light  and  sighed,  deciding  to  sleep  and  shut  out  these 
older  and  darker  and  sweeter  thoughts  if  he  could, 
and  did. 

Presently  he  dreamed,  and  it  was  as  if  some  lovely 
spirit  of  beauty — that  wondrous  thing  he  had  always 
been  seeking — came  and  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
led  him  out,  out  by  dimpling  streams  and  clear  rip 
pling  lakes  and  a  great,  noble  highway  where  were 
temples  and  towers  and  figures  in  white  marble.  And 
it  seemed  as  he  walked  as  if  something  had  been,  or 
were,  promised  him — a  lovely  fruition  to  something 
which  he  craved — only  the  world  toward  which  he 
walked  was  still  dark  or  shadowy,  with  something  sad 
and  repressing  about  it,  a  haunting  sense  of  a  still 
darker  distance.  He  was  going  toward  beauty  appar 
ently,  but  he  was  still  seeking,  seeking,  and  it  was 
dark  there  when 

"Mr.  Haymaker!  Mr.  Haymaker!"  came  a  voice 
— soft,  almost  mystical  at  first,  and  then  clearer  and 
more  disturbing,  as  a  hand  was  laid  on  him.  "Will 
you  come  at  once?  It's  Mrs.  Haymaker!" 

On  the  instant  he  was  on  his  feet  seizing  the  blue 
silk  dressing  gown  hanging  at  his  bed's  head,  and  ad 
justing  it  as  he  hurried.  Mrs.  Elfridge  and  the  nurse 


50  FREE 

were  behind  him,  very  pale  and  distrait,  wringing  their 
hands.  He  could  tell  by  that  that  the  worst  was  at 
hand.  When  he  reached  the  bedroom — her  bedroom 
— there  she  lay  as  in  life — still,  peaceful,  already  limp, 
sometimes  thought,  cold,  lips  were  now  parted  in 
as  though  she  were  sleeping.  Her  thin,  and  as  he 
a  faint,  gracious  smile,  or  trace  of  one.  He  had 
seen  her  look  that  way,  too,  at  times;  a  really 
gracious  smile,  and  wise,  wiser  than  she  was.  The 
long,  thin,  graceful  hands  were  open,  the  fingers 
spread  slightly  apart  as  though  she  were  tired,  very 
tired.  The  eyelids,  too,  rested  wearily  on  tired  eyes. 
Her  form,  spare  as  always,  was  outlined  clearly  under 
the  thin  coverlets.  Miss  Filson,  the  night  nurse,  was 
saying  something  about  having  fallen  asleep  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  waking  only  to  find  her  so.  She  was  ter 
ribly  depressed  and  disturbed,  possibly  because  of  Doc 
tor  Storm. 

Haymaker  paused,  greatly  shocked  and  moved  by 
the  sight — more  so  than  by  anything  since  the  death 
of  little  Elwell.  After  all,  she  had  tried,  according 
to  her  light.  But  now  she  was  dead — and  they  had 
been  together  so  long!  He  came  forward,  tears  of 
sympathy  springing  to  his  eyes,  then  sank  down  be 
side  the  bed  on  his  knees  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  right 
hand  where  it  lay. 

"Ernie,  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "Ernie — are  you 
really  gone?"  His  voice  was  full  of  sorrow;  but  to 
himself  it  sounded  false,  traitorous. 

He  lifted  the  hand  and  put  it  to  his  lips  sadly,  then 
leaned  his  head  against  her,  thinking  of  his  long,  mixed 
thoughts  these  many  days,  while  both  Mrs.  El  fridge 


FREE  51 

nurse  began  wiping  their  eyes.    They  were  so 
>r  him,  he  was  so  old  now ! 

--vwi-  a  while  he  got  up — they  came  forward  to  per 
suade  him  at  last — looking  tremendously  sad  and  dis 
trait,  and  asked  Mrs.  Elfridge  and  the  nurse  not  to  dis 
turb  his  children.  They  could  not  aid  her  now.  Let 
them  rest  until  morning.  Then  he  went  back  to  his 
own  room  and  sat  down  on  the  bed  for  a  moment, 
gazing  out  on  the  same  silvery  scene  that  had  attracted 
him  before.  It  was  dreadful.  So  then  his  dark  wish 
ing  had  come  true  at  last?  Possibly  his  black  thoughts 
had  killed  her  after  all.  Was  that  possible?  Had  his 
voiceless  prayers  been  answered  in  this  grim  way? 
And  did  she  know  now  what  he  had  really  thought? 
Dark  thought.  Where  was  she  now?  What  was  she 
thinking  now  if  she  knew?  Would  she  hate  him — 
haunt  him?  It  was  not  dawn  yet,  only  two  or  three 
in  the  morning,  and  the  moon  was  still  bright.  And 
in  the  next  room  she  was  lying,  pale  and  cool,  gone 
forever  now  out  of  his  life. 

He  got  up  after  a  time  and  went  forward  into  that 
pleasant  front  room  where  he  had  so  often  loved  to  sit, 
then  back  into  her  room  to  view  the  body  again.  Now 
that  she  was  gone,  here  more  than  elsewhere,  in  her 
dead  presence,  he  seemed  better  able  to  collect  his  scat 
tered  thoughts.  She  might  see  or  she  might  not — 
might  know  or  not.  It  was  all  over  now.  Only  he 
could  not  help  but  feel  a  little  evil.  She  had  been  so 
faithful,  if  nothing  more,  so  earnest  in  behalf  of  him 
and  of  his  children.  He  might  have  spared  her  these 
last  dark  thoughts  of  these  last  few  days.  His  feel 
ings  were  so  jumbled  that  he  could  not  place  them  half 
the  time.  But  at  the  same  time  the  ethics  of  the  past, 


52  FREE 

of  his  own  irritated  feelings  and  moods  in  regard  to 
her,  had  to  be  adjusted  somehow  before  he  could  have 
peace.  They  must  be  adjusted,  only  how — how  ?  He 
and  Mrs.  Elfridge  had  agreed  not  to  disturb  Doctor 
Storm  any  more  to-night.  They  were  all  agreed  to 
get  what  rest  they  could  against  the  morning. 

After  a  time  he  came  forward  once  more  to  the 
front  room  to  sit  and  gaze  at  the  park.  Here,  per 
haps,  he  could  solve  these  mysteries  for  himself,  think 
them  out,  find  out  what  he  did  feel.  He  was  evil  for 
having  wished  all  he  had,  that  he  knew  and  felt.  And 
yet  there  was  his  own  story,  too — his  life.  The  dawn 
was  breaking  by  now ;  a  faint  grayness  shaded  the  east 
and  dimly  lightened  this  room.  A  tall  pier  mirror  be 
tween  two  windows  now  revealed  him  to  himself — 
spare,  angular,  disheveled,  his  beard  and  hair  astray 
and  his  eyes  weary.  The  figure  he  made  here  as 
against  his  dreams  of  a  happier  life,  once  he  were 
free,  now  struck  him  forcibly.  What  a  farce !  What 
a  failure!  Why  should  he,  of  all  people,  think  of  fur 
ther  happiness  in  love,  even  if  he  were  free?  Look 
at  his  reflection  here  in  this  mirror.  What  a  picture 
— old,  grizzled,  done  for !  Had  he  not  known  that  for 
so  long?  Was  it  not  too  ridiculous?  Why  should 
he  have  tolerated  such  vain  thoughts?  What  could 
he  of  all  people  hope  for  now?  No  thing  of 
beauty  would  have  him  now.  Of  course  not.  That 
glorious  dream  of  his  youth  was  gone  forever.  It  was 
a  mirage,  an  ignis  fatuus.  His  wife  might  just  as 
well  have  lived  as  died,  for  all  the  difference  it  would 
or  could  make  to  him.  Only,  he  was  really  free  just 
the  same,  almost  as  it  were  in  spite  of  his  varying 


FREE  53 

moods.  But  he  was  old,  weary,  done  for,  a  recluse 
and  ungainly. 

Now  the  innate  cruelty  of  life,  its  blazing  ironic 
indifference  to  him  and  so  many  grew  rapidly  upon 
him.  What  had  he  had  ?  What  all  had  he  not  missed  ? 
Dismally  he  stared  first  at  his  dark  wrinkled  skin; 
the  crow's-feet  at  the  sides  of  his  eyes;  the  wrinkles 
across  his  forehead  and  between  the  eyes;  his  long, 
dark,  wrinkled  hands — handsome  hands  they  once 
were,  he  thought;  his  angular,  stiff  body.  Once  he 
had  been  very  much  of  a  personage,  he  thought,  strik 
ing,  forceful,  dynamic — but  now!  He  turned  and 
looked  out  over  the  park  where  the  young  trees  were, 
and  the  lake,  to  the  pinking  dawn — just  a  trace  now — 
a  significant  thing  in  itself  at  this  hour  surely — 
the  new  dawn,  so  wondrously  new  for  younger  people 
— then  back  at  himself.  What  could  he  wish  for  now 
— what  hope  for? 

As  he  did  so  his  dream  came  back  to  him — that 
strange  dream  of  seeking  and  being  led  and  promised 
and  yet  always  being  led  forward  into  a  dimmer, 
darker  land.  What  did  that  mean?  Had  it  any  real 
significance?  Was  it  all  to  be  dimmer,  darker  still? 
Was  it  typical  of  his  life?  He  pondered. 

"Free!"  he  said  after  a  time.  "Free!  I  know  now 
how  that  is.  I  am  free  now,  at  last!  Free!  .  .  . 
Free!  .  .  .  Yes — free  ...  to  die!" 

So  he  stood  there  ruminating  and  smoothing  his 
hair  and  his  beard. 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SHINING 
SLAVE  MAKERS 

IT  was  a  hot  day  in  August.  The  parching  rays  of  a 
summer  sun  had  faded  the  once  sappy  green  leaves 
•of  the  trees  to  a  dull  and  dusty  hue.  The  grass,  still 
.good  to  look  upon  in  shady  places,  spread  sere  and  dry 
where  the  light  had  fallen  unbroken.  The  roads  were 
hot  with  thick  dust,  and  wherever  a  stone  path  led,  it 
reflected  heat  to  weary  body  and  soul. 

Robert  McEwen  had  taken  a  seat  under  a  fine  old 
beech  tree  whose  broad  arms  cast  a  welcome  shade.  He 
had  come  here  out  of  the  toil  of  the  busy  streets. 

For  a  time  he  gave  himself  over  to  blank  contem 
plation  of  the  broad  park  and  the  occasional  carriages 
that  jingled  by.  Presently  his  meditation  was  broken 
by  an  ant  on  his  trousers,  which  he  flipped  away  with 
his  finger.  This  awoke  him  to  the  thought  that  there 
might  be  more  upon  him.  He  stood  up,  shaking  and 
brushing  himself.  Then  he  noticed  an  ant  running 
along  the  walk  in  front  of  him.  He  stamped  on  it. 

"I  guess  that  will  do  for  you,"  he  said,  half  aloud, 
and  sat  down  again. 

Now  only  did  he  really  notice  the  walk.  It  was  wide 
and  hard  and  hot.  Many  ants  were  hurrying  about, 
and  now  he  saw  that  they  were  black.  At  last,  one 
more  active  than  the  others  fixed  his  eye.  He  followed 
it  with  his  glance  for  more  than  a  score  of  feet. 

This  particular  ant  was  progressing  urgently,  now 
to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  stopping  here  and  there, 

54 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     55 

but  never  for  more;than  a  second.  Its  energy,  the  zig 
zag  course  it  pursued,  the  frequency  with  which  it 
halted  to  examine  something,  enlisted  his  interest.  As 
he  gazed,  the  path  grew  in  imagination  until  it  as 
sumed  immense  proportions. 

Suddenly  he  bestirred  himself,  took  a  single  glance 
and  then  jumped,  rubbing  his  eyes.  He  was  in  an  un 
known  world,  strange  in  every  detail.  The  branched 
and  many-limbed  trees  had  disappeared.  A  forest  of 
immense  flat  swords  of  green  swayed  in  the  air  above 
him.  The  ground  between  lacked  its  carpet  of  green 
and  was  roughly  strewn  with  immense  boulders 
of  clay.  The  air  was  strong  with  an  odor  which 
seemed  strange  and  yet  familiar.  Only  the  hot  sun 
streaming  down  and  a  sky  of  faultless  blue  betokened 
a  familiar  world.  In  regard  to  himself  McEwen  felt 
peculiar  and  yet  familiar.  What  was  it  that  made 
these  surroundings  and  himself  seem  odd  and  yet 
usual?  He  could  not  tell.  His' three  pairs  of  limbs 
and  his  vigorous  mandibles  seemed  natural  enough. 
The  fact  that  he  sensed  rather  than  saw  things  was 
natural  and  yet  odd.  Forthwith  moved  by  a  sense  of 
duty,  necessity,  and  a  kind  of  tribal  obligation  which 
he  more  felt  than  understood,  he  set  out  in  search  of 
food  and  prey  and  presently  came  to  a  broad  plain,  so 
wide  that  his  eye  could  scarce  command  more  than 
what  seemed  an  immediate  portion  of  it.  He  halted 
and  breathed  with  a  feeling  of  relief.  Just  then  a 
voice  startled  him. 

"Anything  to  eat  hereabout?"  questioned  the  new 
comer  in  a  friendly  and  yet  self-interested  tone. 

McEwen  drew  back. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "I  have  just " 


56     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

"Terrible/'  said  the  stranger,  not  waiting  to  hear  his 
answer.  "It  looks  like  famine.  You  know  the 
Sanguinese  have  gone  to  war." 

"No,"  answered  McEwen  mechanically. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "they  raided  the  Fuscse  yes 
terday.  They'll  be  down  on  us  next." 

With  that  the  stranger  made  off.  McEwen  was 
about  to  exclaim  at  the  use  of  the  word  tis  when  a 
ravenous  craving  for  food,  brought  now  forcibly  to 
his  mind  by  the  words  of  the  other,  made  him  start 
in  haste  after  him. 

Then  came  another  who  bespoke  him  in  passing. 

"I  haven't  found  a  thing  to-day,  and  I've  been  all  the 
way  to  the  Pratensis  region.  I  didn't  dare  go  any  fur 
ther  without  having  some  others  with  me.  They're 
hungry,  too,  up  there,  though  they've  just  made  a  raid. 
You  heard  the  Sanguinese  went  to  war,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  he  told  me,"  said  McEwen,  indicating  the  re 
treating  figure  of  the  stranger. 

"Oh,  Ermi.  Yes,  he's  been  over  in  their  territory. 
Well,  I'll  be  going  now." 

McEwen  hastened  after  Ermi  at  a  good  pace,  and 
soon  overtook  him.  The  latter  had  stopped  and  was 
gathering  in  his  mandibles  a  jagged  crumb,  almost  as 
large  as  himself. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  McEwen  eagerly,  "where  did  you 
get  that?" 

"Here,"  said  Ermi. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  little  ?" 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  other,  and  a  light  came  in  his 
eye  that  was  almost  evil. 

"All  right,"  said  McEwen,  made  bold  by  hunger 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     57 

and  yet  cautious  by  danger,  "which  way  would  you  ad 
vise  me  to  look?" 

"Wherever  you  please,"  said  Ermi,  "why  ask  me? 
You  are  not  new  at  seeking,"  and  strode  off. 

"The  forest  was  better  than  this,"  thought  McEwen ; 
"there  I  would  not  die  of  the  heat,  anyhow,  and  I 
might  find  food.  Here  is  nothing,"  and  he  turned  and 
glanced  about  for  a  sight  of  the  jungle  whence  he  had 
come. 

Far  to  the  left  and  rear  of  him  he  saw  it,  those  great 
up-standing  swords.  As  he  gazed,  revolving  in  his 
troubled  mind  whether  he  should  return  or  not,  he  saw 
another  like  himself  hurrying  toward  him  out  of  the 
distance. 

He  eagerly  hailed  the  newcomer,  who  was  yet  a 
long  wa}7  off. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  other,  coming  up  rapidly. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  can  get  something  to  eat?" 

"Is  that  why  you  called  me?"  he  answered,  eyeing 
him  angrily.  "Do  you  ask  in  time  of  famine?  Cer 
tainly  not.  If  I  had  anything  for  myself,  I  would  not 
be  out  here.  Go  and  hunt  for  it  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Why  should  you  be  asking?" 

"I  have  been  hunting,"  cried  McEwen,  his  anger 
rising.  "I  have  searched  here  until  I  am  almost 
starved." 

"No  worse  off  than  any  of  us,  are  you?"  said  the 
other.  "Look  at  me.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  feasting?" 

He  went  off  in  high  dudgeon,  and  McEwen  gazed 
after  him  in  astonishment.  The  indifference  and 
sufficiency  were  at  once  surprising  and  yet  familiar. 
Later  he  found  himself  falling  rapidly  into  helpless 


58     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

lassitude  from  both  hunger  and  heat,  when  a  voice, 
as  of  one  in  pain,  hailed  him. 

"Ho!"  it  cried. 

"Hello !"  he  answered. 

"Come,  come!"  was  the  feeble  reply. 

McEwen  started  forward  at  once.  When  he  was 
still  many  times  his  own  length  away  he  recognized  the 
voice  as  that  of  his  testy  friend  of  a  little  while  before, 
but  now  sadly  changed.  He  was  stretched  upon  the 
earth,  working  his  mandibles  feebly. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  McEwen  solicitously.  "What 
ails  you?  How  did  this  happen?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  other.  "I  was  passing 
along  here  when  that  struck  me,"  indicating  a  huge 
boulder.  "I  am  done  for,  though.  You  may  as  well 
have  this  food  now,  since  you  are  one  of  us.  The 
tribe  can  use  what  you  do  not  eat,"  he  sighed. 

"Oh,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  McEwen  solicitously, 
the  while  he  viewed  the  crushed  limbs  and  side  of  the 
sufferer.  "You'll  be  all  right.  Why  do  you  speak 
of  death?  Just  tell  me  where  to  take  you,  or  whom 
to  go  for." 

"No,"  said  the  other,  "it  would  be  no  use.  You 
see  how  it  is.  They  could  do  nothing  for  me.  I  did 
not  want  your  aid.  I  merely  wanted  you  to  have 
this  food  here.  I  shall  not  want  it  now." 

"Don't  say  that,"  returned  McEwen.  "You  mustn't 
talk  about  dying.  There  must  be  something  I  can  do. 
Tell  me.  I  don't  want  your  food." 

"No,  there  isn't  anything  you  could  do.  There  isn't 
any  cure,  you  know  that.  Report,  when  you  return, 
how  I  was  killed.  Just  leave  me  now  and  take  that 
with  you.  They  need  it,  if  you  do  not" 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     59 

McEwen  viewed  him  silently.  This  reference  to  a 
colony  or  tribe  or  home  seemed  to  clarify  many  things 
for  him.  He  remembered  now  apparently  the  long 
road  he  had  come,  the  immense  galleries  of  the  colony 
to  which  he  belonged  under  the  earth,  the  passages  by 
which  he  had  made  his  way  in  and  out,  the  powerful 
and  revered  ant  mother,  various  larvae  to  be  fed  and 
eggs  to  be  tended.  To  be  sure.  That  was  it.  He 
was  a  part  of  this  immense  colony  or  group.  The 
heat  must  have  affected  his  sensory  powers.  He  must 
gather  food  and  return  there — kill  spiders,  beetles, 
grubs,  and  bring  them  back  to  help  provision  the 
colony.  That  was  it.  Only  there  were  so  few  to  be 
found  here,  for  some  reason. 

The  sufferer  closed  his  eyes  in  evident  pain,  and 
trembled  convulsively.  Then  he  fell  back  and  died. 

McEwen  gazed  upon  the  now  fast  stiffening  body, 
with  all  but  indifference,  and  wondered.  The  spec 
tacle  seemed  so  familiar  as  to  be  all  but  commonplace. 
Apparently  he  had  seen  so  many  die  that  way.  Had 
he  not,  in  times  past,  reported  the  deaths  of  hundreds? 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  a  voice  at  his  side. 

"Yes,"  said  McEwen,  scarcely  bringing  himself  out 
of  his  meditation  sufficiently  to  observe  the  newcomer. 

"Well,  then,  he  will  not  need  this,  I  guess,"  said 
the  other,  and  he  seized  upon  the  huge  lump  with  his 
mandibles,  but  McEwen  was  on  the  alert  and  savage 
into  the  bargain,  on  the  instant.  He,  too,  gripped  his 
mandibles  upon  it. 

"I  was  called  by  him  to  have  this,  before  he  died," 
he  shouted  "and  I  propose  to  have  it.  Let  go." 

"That  I  will  not,"  said  the  other  with  great  vigor 
and  energy.  "I'll  have  some  of  it,  at  least,"  and,  giv- 


60     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

ing  a  mighty  wrench,  which  sent  both  himself  and  Mc- 
Ewen  sprawling,  he  tore  off  a  goodly  portion  of  it  and 
ran,  gaining  his  feet  so  quickly  that  he  was  a  good 
length  off  before  McEwen  arose.  The  latter  was  too 
hungry,  however,  to  linger  in  useless  rage,  and  now 
fell  to  and  ate  before  any  other  should  disturb  him. 
Then,  feeling  partially  satisfied,  he  stretched  himself 
languorously  and  continued  more  at  his  leisure. 
After  a  time  he  shook  himself  out  of  his  torpor  which 
had  seized  on  him  with  his  eating,  and  made  off  for 
the  distant  jungle,  in  which  direction,  as  he  now  felt, 
lay  the  colony  home. 

He  was  in  one  of  the  darkest  and  thickest  portions 
of  the  route  thither  when  there  was  borne  to  him  from 
afar  the  sound  of  feet  in  marching  time,  and  a  mur 
muring  as  of  distant  voices.  He  stopped  and  listened. 
Presently  the  sounds  grew  louder  and  more  individual. 
He  could  now  tell  that  a  great  company  was  nearing 
him.  The  narrow  path  which  he  followed  was  clear 
for  some  distance,  and  open  to  observation.  Not 
knowing  what  creatures  he  was  about  to  meet,  he 
stepped  out  of  it  into  a  thicket,  at  one  side  and  took  up 
a  position  behind  a  great  boulder.  The  tramp  of 
many  feet  was  now  so  close  as  to  bode  contact  and 
discovery,  and  he  saw,  through  the  interstices  of  green 
stalks,  a  strange  column  filing  along  the  path  he  had 
left.  They  were  no  other  than  a  company  of  red 
warriors — slave  makers  like  himself,  only  of  a  differ 
ent  species,  the  fierce  Sanguineae  that  Ermi  had  spoken 
of  as  having  gone  to  war. 

To  war  they  certainly  had  been,  and  no  doubt  were 
going  again.  Nearly  every  warrior  carried  with  him 
some  mark  of  plunder  or  of  death.  Many  bore  in 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     61 

their  mandibles  dead  bodies  of  the  enemy  or  their  larvae 
captured  from  a  Fuscan  colony.  Others  bore  upon 
their  legs  the  severed  heads  of  the  poor  blacks  who 
had  been  slain  in  the  defense  of  their  home,  and  whose 
jaws  still  clung  to  their  foes,  fixed  in  the  rigor  of 
death.  Still  others  dragged  the  bodies  of  their  vic 
tims,  and  shouted  as  they  went,  making  the  long,  lonely 
path  to  ring  with  uncanny  sounds  as  they  disappeared 
in  the  distance. 

McEwen  came  furtively  out  after  a  time  and  looked 
after  them.     He  had  gotten  far  to  the  left  of  the  war 
riors  and  somewhat  to  the  front  of  them,  and  was  just 
about  to  leave  the  shadow  of  one  clump  of  bushes  to 
hurry  to  a  neighboring  stone,   when  there  filed  out 
from  the  very  shelter  upon  which  he  had  his  eye  fixed, 
I  the  figure  of  one  whom  he  immediately  recognized  as 
Ermi.     The  latter  seemed  to  await  a  favorable  op- 
|  portunity  when  he  should  not  be  observed,  and  then 
I  started  running.     McEwen  followed.     In  the  distance 
|  could  be  seen  a  group  of  the  Sanguinese,  who  had 
evidently   paused    for    something,    moving    about   in 
great  excitement,    in   groups   of   two  or   three,   ges 
ticulating   and   talking.     Some   of   those   not   other- 
I  wise  engaged  displayed  a  sensibility  of  danger  or  a 
I  lust  of  war  by  working  their  jaws  and  sawing  at  heavy 
stones  with  their  mandibles.     Presently  one  gazed  in 
the  direction  of  Ermi,  and  shouted  to  the  others. 

Immediately  four  warriors  set  out  in  pursuit.  Mc 
Ewen  hastened  after  Ermi,  to  see  what  would  become 
of  him.  Discreetly  hidden  himself,  he  could  do  this 
with  considerable  equanimity.  As  he  approached, 
he  saw  Ermi  moving  backward  and  forward,  en 
deavoring  to  close  the  entrance  to  a  cave  in  which  he 


62     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

had  now  taken  refuge.  Apparently  that  warrior  had 
become  aware  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost,  since  he  alsd 
could  see  the  pursuing  Sanguineae.  With  a  swift 
ness  born  of  daring  and  a  keen  realization  of  danger, 
he  arranged  a  large  boulder  at  the  very  edge  of  the 
portal  as  a  key,  and  then  others  in  such  position  that 
when  the  first  should  topple  in  the  others  would  fol 
low.  Then  he  crawled  deftly  inside  the  portal,  and 
pulling  the  keystone,  toppled  the  whole  mass  in  after 
him. 

This  was  hardly  done  when  the  Sanguineae  were 
upon  him.  They  were  four  cruel,  murderous 
fighters,  deeply  scarred.  One,  called  by  the  others 
Og,  had  a  black's  head  at  his  thigh.  One  of  his  tem 
ples  bore  a  scar,  and  the  tip  of  his  left  antenna  was 
broken.  He  was  a  keen  old  warrior,  however,  and 
scented  the  prey  at  once. 

"Hi,  you !"  he  shouted  to  the  others.  "Here's  the 
place."  " 

Just  then  another  drew  near  to  the  portal  which 
Ermi  had  barricaded.  He  looked  at  it  closely,  walked 
about  several  times,  sounded  with  his  antennae  and 
then  listened.  There  was  no  answer. 

"Hist!"  he  exclaimed  to  the  others. 

Now  they  came  up.  They  also  looked,  but  so 
well  had  Ermi  done  his  work  that  they  were  puzzled. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Og,  "it  looks  to  me  more  like 
an  abandoned  cave  than  an  entrance." 

"Tear  it  open,  anyway,"  advocated  Ponan,  the  sec 
ond  of  the  quartette,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"There  may  be  no  other  exit." 

"Aha!"  cried  Og,  "Good!     We  will  see  anyhow." 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     63 

"Come  on !"  yelled  Maru,  a  third,  seizing  the  largest 
boulder,  "Mandibles  to!" 

"Out  with  him!"  cried  Om,  jumping  eagerly  to 
work.  "We  will  have  him  out  in  a  jiffy!" 

It  was  not  an  easy  task,  as  the  boulders  were  heavy 
and  deep,  but  they  tore  them  out.  Later  they  dragged 
forth  Ermi,  who,  finding  himself  captured,  seized  the 
head  of  Maru  with  his  mandibles.  Og,  on  the  other 
hand,  seized  one  of  Ermi's  legs  in  his  powerful  jaws. 
The  others  also  had  taken  hold.  The  antennae  of  all 
were  thrown  back,  and  the  entire  mass  went  pushing 
and  shoving,  turning  and  tumbling  in  a  whirl. 

McEwen  gazed,  excited  and  sympathetic.  At  first 
he  thought  to  avoid  it  all,  having  a  horror  of  death, 
but  a  moment  later  decided  to  come  to  his  friend's 
rescue,  a  feeling  of  tribal  relationship  which  was  over 
whelming  coming  over  him.  Springing  forward,  he 
clambered  upon  the  back  of  Og,  at  whose  neck  he 
began  to  saw  with  his  powerful  teeth.  Og,  realizing 
a  new  adversary,  released  his  hold  upon  Ermi's  limb 
and  endeavored  to  shake  off  his  new  enemy.  McEwen 
held  tight,  however.  The  others,  however,  too  excited 
to  observe  the  newcomer,  still  struggled  to  destroy 
Ermi.  The  latter  had  stuck  steadily  to  his  labor  of 
killing  Maru,  and  now,  when  Og's  hold  was  loosened, 
he  gave  a  powerful  crush  and  Maru  breathed  his  last. 
This  advantaged  him  little,  however,  for  both  Ponan 
and  Om  were  attacking  his  sides. 

"Take  that!"  shouted  Om,  throwing  himself  vio 
lently  upon  Ermi  and  turning  him  over.  "Saw  off  his 
head,  Ponan." 

Ponan   released  his  hold   and   sprang   for  Ermi's 


64     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

head.  There  was  a  kicking  and  crushing  of  jaws,  and 
Ponan  secured  his  grip. 

"Kill  him!"  yelled  Om.     "Come,  Og!     Come!" 

At  this  very  moment  Og's  severed  head  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  McEwen  leaping  from  his  back,  sprang 
to  the  aid  of  Ermi. 

"Come!"  he  shouted  at  Ponan,  who  was  sawing 
at  Ermi's  head.  "It's  two  to  two  now,"  and  McEwen 
gave  such  a  wrench  to  Ponan' s  side  that  he  writhed  in 
pain,  and  released  his  hold  on  Ermi. 

But  recovering  himself  he  leaped  upon  McEwen, 
and  bore  him  down,  sprawling. 

The  fight  was  now  more  desperate  than  ever.  The 
combatants  rolled  and  tossed.  McE wen's  right  anten 
na  was  broken  by  his  fall,  and  one  of  his  legs  was  in 
jured.  He  could  seem  to  get  no  hold  upon  his  ad 
versary,  whom  he  now  felt  to  be  working  toward  his 
neck. 

"Let  go!"  he  yelled,  gnashing  at  him  with  his  man 
dibles,  but  Ponan  only  tightened  his  murderous  jaws. 

Better  fortune  was  now  with  Ermi,  however,  who 
was  a  more  experienced  fighter.  Getting  a  grip  upon 
Om's  body,  he  hurled  him  to  the  ground  and  left  him 
stunned  and  senseless. 

Seeing  McEwen's  predicament,  he  now  sprang  to 
his  aid.  The  latter  was  being  sadly  worsted  and  but 
for  the  generous  aid  of  Ermi,  would  have  been  killed. 
The  latter  struck  Ponan  a  terrific  blow  with  his  head 
and  having  stunned  him,  dragged  him  off.  The  two, 
though  much  injured,  now  seized  upon  the  unfortunate 
Sanguinea  and  tore  him  in  two,  and  would  have  done 
as  much  for  Om,  had  they  not  discovered  that  that 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     65 

bedraggled  warrior  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  crawl 
away  and  hide. 

McEwen  and  Ermi  now  drew  near  to  each  other  in 
warm  admiration. 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Ermi.  "They  are  all  about 
here  now  and  that  coward  who  escaped  will  have  them 
upon  us.  There  is  a  corridor  into  our  home  from 
here,  only  I  was  not  able  to  reach  it  before  they  caught 
me.  Help  me  barricade  this  entrance.'* 

Together  they  built  up  the  stones  more  effectually 
than  before,  and  then  entered,  toppling  the  mass  in  be 
hind  them.  With  considerable  labor,  they  built  up 
another  barricade  below. 

"You  watch  a  moment,  now,"  said  Ermi  to  Mc 
Ewen,  and  then  hurried  down  a  long  passage  through 
which  he  soon  returned  bringing  with  him  a  sentinel, 
who  took  up  guard  duty  at  the  point  where  the  fight 
had  occurred.  "He  will  stay  here  and  give  the  alarm 
in  case  another  attack  is  made,"  he  commented. 

"Come  now,"  he  added,  touching  McEwen  affec 
tionately  with  his  antennae.  Leading  the  way,  Ermi 
took  him  along  a  long  winding  corridor  with  which, 
somehow,  he  seemed  to  be  familiar,  and  through  vari 
ous  secret  passages  into  the  colony  house. 

"You  see,"  he  said  to  McEwen  familiarly,  as  they 
went,  "they  could  not  have  gotten  in  here,  even  if  they 
had  killed  me,  without  knowing  the  way.  Our  pas 
sageways  are  too  intricate.  But  it  is  as  well  to  keep 
a  picket  there,  now  that  they  are  about.  Where  have 
you  been?  You  do  not  belong  to  our  colony,  do 
you?" 

McEwen  related  his  experiences  since  their  meeting 
in  the  desert,  without  explaining  where  he  came  from. 


66     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

He  knew  that  he  was  a  member  of  some  other  coiony 
of  this  same  tribe  without  being  sure  of  which  one. 
A  strange  feeling  of  wandering  confusion  possessed 
him,  as  though  he  had  been  injured  in  some  way, 
somewhere,  and  was  lost  for  the  moment. 

"Well,  you  might  as  well  stay  with  us,  now,"  said 
Ermi.  "Are  you  hungry?" 

"Very,"  said  McEwen. 

"Then  we  will  eat  at  once." 

McEwen  now  gazed  upon  a  domed  chamber  of  vast 
proportions,  with  which,  also,  he  seemed  familiar,  an 
old  inhabitant  of  one  such,  no  less.  It  had  several 
doors  that  opened  out  into  galleries,  and  corridors 
leading  to  other  chambers  and  store  rooms,  a  home  for 
thousands. 

Many  members  of  this  allied  family  now  hurried  to 
meet  them,  all  genially  enough. 

"You  have  had  an  encounter  with  them?"  asked 
several  at  once. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  said  Ermi,  who,  fighter  that 
he  was,  had  also  a  touch  of  vanity.  "Look  after  my 
friend  here,  who  has  saved  my  life." 

"Not  I !"  cried  McEwen  warmly. 

They  could  not  explain,  however,  before  they  were 
seized  by  their  admirers  and  carried  into  a  chamber 
where  none  of  the  din  of  preparation  penetrated,  and 
where  was  a  carpet  of  soft  grass  threads  upon  which 
they  might  lie. 

Injured  though  they  were,  neither  could  endure  ly 
ing  still  for  long,  and  were  soon  poking  about,  though 
unable  to  do  anything.  McEwen  was  privileged  to  idle 
and  listlessly  watch  an  attack  on  one  portal  of  the  cave 
which  lasted  an  entire  day,  resulting  in  failure  for 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     67 

the  invaders.  It  was  a  rather  broken  affair,  the 
principal  excitement  occurring  about  the  barricaded 
portals  and  secret  exits  at  the  end  of  the  long  corri 
dors,  where  McEwen  often  found  himself  in  the  way. 
The  story  of  his  prowess  had  been  well  told  by  Ermi, 
and  he  was  a  friend  and  hero  whom  many  served.  A 
sort  of  ambulance  service  was  established  which  not 
only  looked  to  the  bringing  in  of  the  injured,  but  also 
to  the  removal  of  the  dead.  A  graveyard  was  prepared 
just  outside  one  of  the  secret  entrances,  far  from  the 
scene  of  the  siege,  and  here  the  dead  were  laid  in 
orderly  rows. 

The  siege  having  ended  temporarily  the  same  day  it 
began,  the  household  resumed  its  old  order.  Those 
who  had  remained  within  went  forth  for  forage.  The 
care  of  the  communal  young,  which  had  been  some 
what  interrupted,  was  now  resumed.  Larvse  and  chry 
salis,  which  had  been  left  almost  unattended  in  the 
vast  nurseries,  were  moved  to  and  fro  between  the 
rooms  where  the  broken  sunlight  warmed,  and  the 
shadow  gave  them  rest. 

"There  is  war  ahead/'  said  Ermi  to  McEwen  one 
day  not  long  after  this.  "These  Sanguinese  will  never 
let  us  alone  until  we  give  them  battle.  We  shall  have 
to  stir  up  the  whole  race  of  Shining  Slave  Makers 
and  fight  all  the  Sanguines  before  we  have  peace 
again." 

"Good,"  said  McEwen.    "I  am  ready." 

"So  am  I,"  answered  Ermi,  "but  it  is  no  light  mat 
ter.  They  are  our  ancient  enemy  and  as  powerful  as 
we.  If  we  meet  again  you  will  see  war  that  is  war." 

Not  long  after  this  McEwen  and  Ermi,  foraging  to 
gether,  encountered  a  Sanguinea,  who  fought  with 


68     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

them  and  was  slain.  Numerous  Lucidi,  of  which  tribe 
he  found  himself  to  be  a  member,  left  the  com 
munity  of  a  morning  to  labor  and  were  never  heard  of 
again.  Encounters  between  parties  of  both  camps  were 
frequent,  and  orderly  living  ceased. 

At  last  the  entire  community  was  in  a  ferment,  and 
a  council  was  called.  It  was  held  in  the  main  saloon 
of  the  formicary,  a  vast  chamber  whose  hollowed  dome 
rose  like  the  open  sky  above  them.  The  queen  of  the 
community  was  present,  and  all  the  chief  warriors,  in 
cluding  Ermi  and  McEwen.  Loud  talking  and  fierce 
comment  were  indulged  in  to  no  point,  until  Yumi, 
long  a  light  in  the  councils  of  the  Lucidi,  spoke.  He 
was  short  and  sharp  of  speech. 

"We  must  go  to  war,"  he  said.  "Our  old  enemies 
will  give  us  no  peace.  Send  couriers  to  all  the  colonies 
of  the  Shining  Slave  Makers.  We  will  meet  the  Red 
Slave  Makers  as  we  did  before/' 

"Ah,"  said  an  old  Lucidi,  who  stood  at  McEwen's 
side,  "that  was  a  great  battle.  You  don't  remember. 
You  were  too  young.  There  were  thousands  and  thou 
sands  in  that.  I  could  not  walk  for  the  dead." 

"Are  we  to  have  another  such  ?"  asked  McEwen. 

"If  the  rest  of  us  come.  We  are  a  great  people. 
The  Shining  Slave  Makers  are  numberless." 

Just  then  another  voice  spoke,  and  Ermi  listened. 

"Let  us  send  for  them  to  come  here.  When  the 
Sanguineae  again  lay  siege  let  us  pour  out  and  destroy 
them.  Let  none  escape." 

"Let  us  first  send  couriers  and  hear  what  our  people 
say,"  broke  in  Ermi  loudly.  "The  Sanguines  are  a 
vast  people  also.  We  must  have  numbers.  It  must  be 
a  decisive  battle." 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     69 

"Ay,  ay,"  answered  many.     "Send  the  couriers!" 

Forthwith  messengers  were  dispatched  to  all  parts, 
calling  the  hordes  of  the  Shining  Slave  Makers  to  war. 
In  due  course  they  returned,  bringing  information  that 
they  were  coming.  Their  colonies  also  had  been  at 
tacked.  Later  the  warriors  of  the  allied  tribes  began 
to  put  in  an  appearance. 

It  was  a  gathering  of  legions.  The  paths  in  the  for 
ests  about  resounded  with  their  halloos.  With  the  ar 
rival  of  the  first  cohorts  of  these  friendly  colonies,  there 
was  a  minor  encounter  with  an  irritant  host  of  the 
Sanguineae  foraging  hereabout,  who  were  driven  back 
and  destroyed.  Later  there  were  many  minor  en 
counters  and  deaths  before  the  hosts  were  fully  as 
sembled,  but  the  end  was  not  yet.  All  knew  that. 
The  Sanguinese  had  fled,  but  not  in  cowardice.  They 
would  return. 

The  one  problem  with  this  vast  host,  now  that  it 
was  assembled,  was  food.  Eventually  they  expected  to 
discover  this  in  the  sacked  homes  of  the  Sanguineae, 
but  temporarily  other  provision  must  be  made.  The 
entire  region  had  to  be  scoured.  Colonies  of  Fuscae 
and  Schauffusi  living  in  nearby  territory  were  attacked 
and  destroyed.  Their  storehouses  were  ransacked  and 
;the  contents  distributed.  Every  form  of  life  was  at- 
,  tacked  and  still  there  was  not  enough. 

Both  McEwen  and  Ermi,  now  inseparable,  joined 
in  one  of  these  raids.  It  was  upon  a  colony  of  Fuscse, 
who  had  their  home  in  a  neighboring  forest.  The 
company  went  singing  on  their  way  until  within  a 
short  distance  of  the  colony,  when  they  became  silent. 

"Let  us  not  lose  track  of  one  another,"  said  Mc~ 
Ewen. 


70     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

"No,"  said  Ermi,  "but  they  are  nothing.  We  will 
take  all  they  possess  without  a  struggle.  See  them 
running/' 

As  he  said  this,  he  motioned  in  the  direction  of  sev 
eral  Fuscse  that  were  fleeing  toward  their  portals  in 
terror.  The  Lucidi  set  up  a  shout,  and  darted  after, 
plunging  into  the  open  gates,  striking  and  slaying  as 
they  wen':.  In  a  few  minutes  those  first  in  came  out 
again  carrying  their  booty.  Others  were  singly  en 
gaged  in  fiercest  battle  with  large  groups  of  the  weaker 
Fuscse.  Only  a  few  of  the  latter  were  inclined  to 
fight.  They  seemed  for  the  most  part  dazed  by  their 
misfortunes.  Numbers  hung  from  the  topmost  blades 
of  the  towering  sword-trees,  and  the  broad,  floor-like 
leaves  of  the  massive  weeds,  about  their  caves  where 
they  had  taken  refuge,  holding  in  their  jaws  baby 
larvse  and  cocoons  rescued  from  the  invaders,  with 
which  they  had  hurriedly  fled  to  these  nearest  elevated 
objects. 

Singly,  McEwen  pursued  a  dozen,  and  reveled  in  the 
sport  of  killing  them.  He  tumbled  them  with  rushes 
of  his  body,  crushed  them  with  his  mandibles,  and 
poisoned  them  with  his  formic  sting. 

"Do  you  need  help?"  called  Ermi  once,  who  was 
always  near  and  shouting. 

"Yes,"  called  McEwen  scornfully,  "bring  me  more 
of  them." 

Soon  the  deadly  work  was  over  and  the  two  com 
rades,  gathering  a  mass  of  food,  joined  the  returning 
band,  singing  as  they  went. 

"To-morrow,"  said  Ermi,  as  they  went  along,  "we 
will  meet  the  Sanguinese.  It  is  agreed.  The  leaders 
are  conferring  now." 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     71 

McEwen  did  not  learn  where  these  latter  were,  but 
somehow  he  was  pleased.  An  insane  lust  of  combat 
was  now  upon  him. 

'They  will  not  be  four  to  two  this  time/'  he  laughed 
exultingly. 

"No,  and  we  will  not  be  barricading  against  them, 
either,"  laughed  Ermi,  the  lust  of  war  simmering  in 
lis  veins. 

As  they  came  near  their  camp,  however,  they  found 
a  large  number  of  the  assembled  companies  already  in 
motion.  Thousands  upon  thousands  of  those  who 
lad  arrived  were  already  assembled  in  one  group  or 
another  and  were  prepared  for  action.  There  were 
cries  and  sounds  of  fighting,  and  long  lines  of  Lucidi 
hurrying  hither  and  thither. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Ermi  excitedly. 

"The  Sanguinese,"  was  the  answer.  "They  are  re 
turning." 

Instantly  McEwen  became  sober.  Ermi  turned  to 
him  affectionately. 

"Now,"  he  said  solemnly,  "courage.  We're  in  for 
it." 

A  tremendous  hubbub  followed.  Already  vast  le 
gions  of  the  Lucidi  were  bearing  away  to  the  east. 
j!  McEwen  and  Ermi,  not  being  able  to  find  their  own, 
fell  in  with  a  strange  company. 

"Order!"  shouted  a  voice  in  their  ears.  "Fall  in 
:  line.  We  are  called." 

The  twain  mechanically  obeyed,  and  dropped  behind 

la  regular  line.     Soon  they  were  winding  along  with 

other  long  lines  of  warriors  through  the  tall  sword 

trees,  and  in  a  little  while  reached  a  huge,  smooth,  open 

plain  where  already  the  actual  fighting  had  begun. 


72     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

Thousands  were  here,  apparently  hundreds  of  thou 
sands.  There  was  little  order,  and  scarcely  any  was 
needed  apparently,  since  all  contacts  were  individual 
or  between  small  groups.  It  all  depended  now  on 
numbers,  and  the  results  of  the  contests  between  indi 
viduals,  or  at  the  most,  these  small  groups.  Ermi, 
McEwen,  and  several  other  Lucidi  were  about  to  seize 
upon  one  Sanguinea,  who  was  approaching  them,  when 
an  amazing  rush  of  the  latter  broke  them,  and  Mc 
Ewen  found  himself  separated  from  Ermi  with  a  red 
demon  snapping  at  his  throat.  Dazed  by  the  shock 
and  clamor,  he  almost  fell  a  prey  to  this  first  charge. 
A  moment  later,  however,  his  courage  and  daring  re 
turned.  With  a  furious  bound,  he  recovered  himself 
and  forced  himself  upon  his  adversary,  snapping  his 
jaws  in  his  neck. 

"Take  that!"  he  said  to  the  tumbling  carcass. 

He  had  no  sooner  ended  one  foe,  however,  than 
another  clutched  him.  They  were  on  every  hand, 
hard,  merciless  fighters  like  himself  and  Ermi 
who  rushed  and  tore  and  sawed  with  amazing  force. 
McEwen  faced  his  newest  adversary  swiftly.  While 
the  latter  was  seeking  for  McEwen' s  head  and  anten 
nae  with  his  mandibles,  the  former  with  a  quick  snap 
seized  his  foe  by  the  neck.  Turning  up  his  abdomen, 
he  ejected  formic  acid  into  the  throat  of  the  other. 
That  finished  him. 

Meanwhile  the  battle  continued  on  every  hand  with 
the  same  mad  vehemence.  Already  the  dead  clogged 
the  ground.  Here,  single  combatants  struggled — 
there,  whole  lines  moved  and  swayed  in  deadly  com 
bat.  Ever  and  anon  new  lines  were  formed,  and 
strange  hosts  of  friends  or  enemies  came  up,  falling 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     73 

upon  the  combatants  of  both  sides  with  murderous  en 
thusiasm.  McEwen,  in  a  strange  daze  and  lust  of 
death,  seemed  to  think  nothing  of  it.  He  was  alone 
now — lost  in  a  tossing  sea  of  war,  and  terror  seemed  to 
have  forsaken  him.  It  was  wonderful,  he  thought, 
mysterious 

As  enemy  after  enemy  assailed  him,  he  fought  them 
as  he  best  knew,  an  old  method  to  him,  apparently,  and 
as  they  died,  he  wished  them  to  die — broken,  poisoned, 
sawed  in  two.  He  began  to  count  and  exult  in  the 
numbers  he  had  slain.  It  was  at  last  as  though  he 
were  dreaming,  and  all  around  was  a  vain,  dark,  surg 
ing  mass  of  enemies. 

Finally,  four  of  the  Sanguines  seized  upon  him  in 
a  group,  and  he  went  down  before  them,  almost  help 
less.  Swiftly  they  tore  at  his  head  and  body,  en 
deavoring  to  dispose  of  him  quickly.  One  seized  a  leg, 
another  an  antenna.  A  third  jumped  and  sawed  at 
his  neck.  Still  he  did  not  care.  It  was  all  war,  and  he 
would  struggle  to  the  last  shred  of  his  strength, 
eagerly,  enthusiastically.  At  last  he  seemed  to  lose 
consciousness. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  Ermi  was  beside 
him. 

"Well?"  said  Ermi. 

"Well?"  answered  McEwen. 

"You  were  about  done  for,  then." 

"Was  I?"  he  answered.  "How  are  things  go 
ing?" 

"I  cannot  tell  yet,"  said  Ermi.  "All  I  know  is  that 
you  were  faring  badly  when  I  came  up.  Two  of  them 
were  dead,  but  the  other  two  were  killing  you." 

"You  should  have  left  me  to  them,"  said  McEwen, 


74     McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS 

noticing  now  for  the  first  time  Ermi's  wounds.  "If 
does  not  matter  so  much — one  Lucidi  more  or  less — 
what  of  it?  But  you  have  been  injured." 

"I — oh,  nothing.  You  are  the  one  to  complain.  I 
fear  you  are  badly  injured." 

"Oh,  I,"  returned  McEwen  heavily,  feeling  at  last 
the  weight  of  death  upon  him,  "I  am  done  for.  I  can 
not  live.  I  felt  myself  dying  some  time  ago." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  trembled.  In  another  mo 
ment 

***** 

McEwen  opened  his  eyes.  Strangely  enough  he 
was  looking  out  upon  jingling  carriages  and  loitering 
passersby  in  the  great  city  park.  It  was  all  so  strange, 
by  comparison  with  that  which  he  had  so  recently  seen, 
the  tall  buildings  in  the  distance,  instead  of  the 
sword  trees,  the  trees,  the  flowers.  He  jumped  to  his 
feet  in  astonishment,  then  sank  back  again  in  equal 
amaze,  a  passerby  eyeing  him  curiously  the  while. 

"I  have  been  asleep,"  he  said  in  a  troubled  way.  "I 
have  been  dreaming.  And  what  a  dream !" 

He  shut  his  eyes  again,  wishing,  for  some  strange 
reason — charm,  sympathy,  strangeness — to  regain  the 
lost  scene.  An  odd  longing  filled  his  heart,  a  sense  of 
comradeship  lost,  of  some  friend  he  knew  missing. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  he  seemed  to  realize 
something  more  of  what  had  been  happening,  but  it 
was  fading,  fading. 

At  his  feet  lay  the  plain  and  the  ants  with  whom  he 
had  recently  been — or  so  he  thought.  Yes,  there,  only 
a  few  feet  away  in  the  parched  grass,  was  an  arid  spot, 
over-run  with  insects.  He  gazed  upon  it,  in  amaze 
ment,  searching  for  the  details  of  a  lost  world.  Now, 


McEWEN  OF  THE  SLAVE  MAKERS     75 

as  he  saw,  coming  closer,  a  giant  battle  was  in  progress, 
such  a  one,  for  instance,  as  that  in  which  he  had  been 
engaged  in  his  dream.  The  ground  was  strewn  with 
dead  ants.  Thousands  upon  thousands  were  sawing 
and  striking  at  each  other  quite  in  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  dreamed.  What  was  this? — a  revelation  of 
the  spirit  and  significance  of  a  lesser  life  or  of  his 
own — or  what?  And  what  was  life  if  the  strange 
passions,  moods  and  necessities  which  conditioned  him 
here  could  condition  those  there  on  so  minute  a  plane  ? 

"Why,  I  was  there,"  he  said  dazedly  and  a  little 
dreamfully,  "a  little  while  ago.  I  died  there — or  as 
well  as  died  there — in  my  dream.  At  least  I  woke 
out  of  it  into  this  or  sank  from  that  into  this." 

Stooping    closer    he    could    see    where   lines   were 
drawn,  how  in  places  the  forces  raged  in  confusion, 
and  the  field  was  cluttered  with  the  dead.     At  one 
moment  an  odd  mad  enthusiasm  such  as  he  had  experi 
enced  in  his  dream-world  lay  hold  of  him,  and  he 
looked  for  the  advantage  of  the  Shining  Slave  Makers 
— the  blacks — as  he  thought  of  the  two  warring  hosts 
as  against  the  reds.  *  But  finding  it  not,   the  mood 
passed,  and  he  stood  gazing,  lost  in  wonder.     What 
a  strange  world!   he  thought.     What  worlds  within    < 
worlds,   all  apparently   full   of  necessity,   contention,    - 
binding  emotions  and  unities — and  all  with  sorrow, 
their  sorrow — a  vague,  sad  something  out  of  far-off   x 
things  which  had  been  there,  and  was  here  in  this    ( 
strong  bright  city  day,  had  been  there  and  would  be   ' 
here  until  this  odd,  strange  thing  called  life  had  ended. 


NIGGER  JEFF 

THE  city  editor  was  waiting  for  one  of  his  best 
reporters,  Elmer  Davies  by  name,  a  vain  and 
rather  self-sufficient  youth  who  was  inclined  to  be 
of  that  turn  of  mind  which  sees  in  life  only  a  fixed 
and  ordered  process  of  rewards  and  punishments.  If 
one  did  not  do  exactly  right,  one  did  not  get  along 
well.  On  the  contrary,  if  one  did,  one  did.  Only 
the  so-called  evil  were  really  punished,  only  the  good 
truly  rewarded— K)r  Mr.  Davies  had  heard  this  so  long 
in  his  youth  that  he  had  come  nearly  to  believe  it. 
Presently  he  appeared.  He  was  dressed  in  a  new 
spring  suit,  a  new  hat  and  new  shoes.  In  the  lapel 
of  his  coat  was  a  small  bunch  of  violets.  It  was  one 
o'clock  of  a  sunny  spring  afternoon,  and  he  was  feel 
ing  exceedingly  well  and  good-natured — quite  fit,  in 
deed.  The  world  was  going  unusually  well  with  him. 
It  seemed  worth  singing  about. 

"Read  that,  Davies,"  said  the  city  editor,  handing 
him  the  clipping.  "I'll  tell  you  afterward  what  I 
want  you  to  do." 

The  reporter  ,stood  by  tjie  editorial  chair  and  read : 

f  M^        4^4    dW^^/j    1&U.-J      C*VU\      • 

Pleasant  Valley,  Ko.,  April  16. 

"A  most  dastardly  crime  has  just  been  reported 

here.     Jeff  Ingalls,  a  negro,  this  morning  assaulted 

Ada    Whitaker,    the    nineteen-year-old    daughter    of 

Morgan  Whitaker,  a  well-to-do  farmer,  whose  home 

76 


NIGGER  JEFF 


77 


is  four  miles  south  of  this  place.  A  posse,  headed  by 
Sheriff  Mathews,  has  started  in  pursuit.  If  he  is 
caught,  it  is  thought  he  will  be  lynched.'' 

The  reporter  raised  his  eyes  as  he  finished.  What 
a  terrible  crime!  What  evil  people  there  were  in  the 
world !  No  doubt  such  a  creature  ought  to  be  lynched, 
and  that  quickly. 

"You  had  better  go  out  there,  Davies,"  said  the 
city  editor.  "It  looks  as  if  something  might  come  of 
that.  A  lynching  up  here  would  be  a  big  thing. 
There's  never  been  one  in  this  state." 

Davies  smiled.  He  was  always  pleased  to  be  sent 
out  of  town.  It  was  a  mark  of  appreciation.  The 
city  editor-rarely  sent  any  of  the  other  men  on  these 
big  stories.  What  a  nice  ride  he  would  have!- 

As  he  went  along,  however,  a  few  minutes  later  he 
began  to  meditate  on  this.  Perhaps,  as  the  city  editor 
had  suggested,  he  might  be  compelled  to  witness  an 
actual  lynching.  That  was  by  no  means  so  pleasant 
in  itself.  In  hjs  fixed  code  of  jrewards  ai>d  punish 
ments  he  had  np  particular  place  for  lynchings,  even 
for  crimes  of  the  nature  described,  especially  if  he 


had  to  witness  the  lynching.     Ill  was  too 
kind  of  reward  or  punishment.     4)nce,  in  lin 
he  hac)  been  compelled  to  witness  la  hanging 
had  rryade  him  sick — deathly  so — even  th 

a  part  of  the  due  process  of  law  o 
ace.     Now,  as  he  looked  ac  this  fine 
cellent  clothes,  he  was  not  sd>  sure  tha 
hwhile  assignment.     Why  should  he 
d  for  such  I  things — just  because  he  cou 


out  a 
and  f 
his  e:x 
a  woi 
select 


There  were   othdrs — lots   of  men  on  the  staff. 

i 


>rrible  a 
of  duty, 
and  that 
carried 
his  day 
day  and 
this  was 
ways  be 
I  write? 
He 


78  NIGGER  JEFF 

began  to  hope  as  he  went  along  that  nothing  really 
seriousNwould  come  of  it,  that  they  would  catch  the 
man  before  he  got  there  and  put  him  in  jail — or,  if 
the  worst  had  to  be — painful  thought! — that  it  would 
be  all  over  by  the  time  he  got  there.  Let's  see — the 
telegram  had  been  filed  at  nine  a.m.  It  was  now  one- 
thirty  and  would  be  three  by  the  time  he  got  out  there, 
all  of  that.  That  would  give  them  time  enough,  and 
then,  if  all  were  well,  or  ill,  as  it  were,  he  could  just 
gather  the  details  of  the  crime  &nd  the — aftermath — 
and  return.  The  mere  thought  \of  an  approaching 
lynching  troubled  him  greatly,  and  tfye  farther  he  went 
the  less  he  liked  it. 

He  found  the  village  of  Pleasant  Valley  a  very  small 
affair  indeed,  just  a  few  dozen  houses  nestling  between 
green  slopes  of  low  hills,  with  one  small  business  cor 
ner  and  a  rambling  array  of  lanes.  }?fc>ne-  or  two  mer 
chants  of  K ,  the  city  from  which  he  had  just 

arrived,  lived  out  here,  but  otherwise  it  was  very  rural. 
He  took  notes  of  the  whiteness  of  the  little  houses,  the 
shimmering  beauty  of  the  small  stream  one  had  to 
cross  in  going  from  the  depot.  At  the  one  main  cor 
ner  a  few  men  were  gathered  about  a  typical  village 
barroom.  Davies  headed  for  this  as  being  the  most 
likely  source  of  information.  .  /mi^ 

In  mingling  with  tkis  '  company  '  at— first  he  said 
nothing'  about  his  being  a  newspaper  man,  being  very 
doubtful  as  to  its  effect  upon  them,  their  freedom  of 
speech  and  manner. 

The  whole  company  was  apparently  tense  with  in 
terest  in  the  crime  which  still  remained  unpunished, 
seemingly  craving  excitement  and  desirous  of  seeing 
something  done  about  it.  No  such  opportunity  to 


NIGGER  JEFF  79 

work  up  wrath  and  vent  their  stored-up  animal  pro 
pensities  had  probably  occurred  here  in  years.  He 
took  this  occasion  to  inquire  into  the  exact  details  of 
the  attack,  wheje  it  had  occurred,  where  the  Whitakers 
lived.X  Thfev  seeing  that  mere  talk  prevailed  here, 
he  went  away  thinking  that  he  had  best  find  out  for 
himself  how  the  victim  was.  As  yet  she  had  not  been 
described,  and  it  was  necessary  to  know  a  little  some 
thing  about  her.  Accordingly,  he  sought  an  old  man 
ho  kept  a  stable  in  the  village,  and  procured  a  horse. 
carriage  was  to  be  had.  Davies  was  not  an  ex- 
cellent.rjder,  but  he  made  a  shift  of-  it.  The  Whitaker 
homerivas  not  so  very  far  away — about  four  miles 


8o  NIGGER  JEFF 

"She  started  to  go  over  to  our  next  door  neighbor 
here,  Mr.  Edmonds,  and  this  negro  met  her.  We 
•  didn't  know  anything  about  it  until  she  came  crying 
through  the  gate  and  dropped  down  in  here." 

"Were  you  the  first  one  to  mee{;  her?"  asked  Davies. 

"Yes,  U  was  the  only  one,"  sXjd  Mrs.  Whitaker. 
"The  men\had  all  gone  to  the  fields^' 

Davies  listened  to  more  of  the  details,  the  type  and 
history  of  the  man,  and  then  rose  to  go.  Bef<!rre-4Q- 
ing  so  he  vjras  allowed  to  have  a  Idok  at  the  girl,  who 
was  still  sleeping.  She  was^young  and  rather  pretty e 
In  the  yard  he  met  a  country  man7  who  was  just  com 
ing  to  get  pome  news.  The  latte/r  imparted  mbre  in 
formation. 

"They're  lookin'  all  around  south  of  here,"  he  said, 
speaking  of  a  crowd  which  was  supposed  to  be  search 
ing.  "I  expect  they'll  make  short  work  of  him  if 
they  get  him.  He  can't  get  away  very  well,  for  he's 
on  foot,  wherever  he  is.  The  sheriff's  after  him  too, 
with  a  deputy  or  two,  I  believe.  He'll  be  tryin'  to 
save  him  an'  take  him  over  to  Clayton,  but  I  don't 
believe  he'll  be  able  to  do  it,  not  if  the  crowd  catches 
him  first." 

So,  thought  Davies,  he  would  probably  have  to  wit 
ness  a  lynching  after  all.  The  prospect  was  most 
unhappy. 

"Do.es  any  one  know  where  this  negro\ lived?"  he 
asked  heavily,  a  growing  seijse  of  his  duty  weighing 
upon  mm. 

"Oh,  \right  down  here  a  little  way,"  replied  the 
farmer.  \  "Jeff  Ingalls  was  his  \name.  We  all  know 
him  aroiitid  here.  He  worked  for  one  and  another 
of  the  fanners  hereabouts,  and  don't  appear  to  have 


NIGGER  JEFF  81 

had  such  a  bad  record,  either,  except  for  drinkin'  a 
little  now  and  then.  Miss  Ada  recognized  him,  all 
right.  You  follow  this  road  to  the  next  crossing  and 
turn  to  the  right.  It's  a  little  log  house  that  sets  back 
off  the  road — something  like  that  one  you  see  down 
the  lane  there,  only  it's  got  lots  o'  chips  scattered 
about." 

Davies  decided  to  go  there  first,  but  changed  his 
mind.  It  was  growing  late,  and  he  thought  he  had 
better  return  to  the  village.  Perhaps  by  now  develop 
ments  in  connection  with  the  sheriff  or  the  posse  were 
to  be  learned. 

Aeeerciingfy,  pe  rode  back  and  put  the  horse  in  the 
hands  of  its  owner,  hoping  that  all  had  been  concluded 
and  that  he  might  learn  of  it  here.^XAti  the  principal 
corner  much  the  sarfne  company  was  still/present,  argu- 
|ing,  fomenting,  gesticulating.  They  sefemed  parts  of 
different  companie/s  that  earlier  in  the*  day  had  been 
put  searching.  /{-He  wondered  what  they  had  been  do 
ing  since,  and  then  decided  to  ingratiate  himself  by 
telling  them  he  had  just  come  from  the  Whitakers  and 
.what  he  had  learned  there  of  the  present  condition  of 
the  girl  and  the  movements  of  the  sheriff. 

Just  then  a  young  farmer  came  galloping  up.  He 
[was  coatless,  hatless,  breathless. 

"They've  got  him !"  he  shouted  excitedly.  "They've 
[got  him !" 

A  chorus  of  "whos,"  "wheres"  and  "whens"  greeted 
this  information  as  the  crowd  gathered  about  the  rider. 

"Why,  Mathews  caught  him  up  here  at  his  own 
house!"  exclaimed  the  latter,  pulling  out  a  handker- 
ichief  and  wiping  his  face.  "He  must  'a'  gone  back 
there  for  something.  Mathews's  takin'  him  over  to 


82  NIGGER  JEFF 

Clayton,  so  they  think,  but  they  don't  project  he'll 
ever  get  there.  They're  after  him  now,  but  Mathews 
says  he'll  shoot  the  first  man  that  tries  to  take  him 
away." 

"Which  way'd  he  go  ?"  exclaimed  the  men  in  chorus, 
stirring  as  if  to  make  an  attack. 

"  'Cross  Sellers'  Lane,"  said  the  rider.  "The  boys 
think  he's  goin'  by  way  of  Baldwin." 

"Whoopee!"  yelled  one  of  the  listeners.  "We'll 
get  him  away  from  him,  all  right!  Are  you  goin', 
Sam?" 

"You  bet!"  said  the  latter.  "Wait'll  I  get  my 
horse!" 

"Lord !"  thought  Davies.  "To  think  of  being  (per 
force)  one  of  a  lynching  party — a  hired  spectator!" 

He  delayed  no  longer,  however,  but  hastened  to 
secure  his  horse  again.  He  saw  that  the  crowd  would 
be  off  in  a  minute  to  catch  up  with  the  sheriff.  There 
would  be  information  in  that\  quarter,  drama  very 
likely. 

"What's  doin'  ?"  inquired  the  liveryman  as  he  noted 
Davies'  excited  appearance. 

"They're  \fter  him,"  replied  the  latter  nervously. 
"The  sheriff's  caught  him.  They're  going  now  to  try 
to  take  him  away  from  him,  or  that's  what  they  say. 
The  sheriff  is  taking  him  over  to  Clayton,  by  way  of 
Baldwin.  I  want  to  get  over  there  if  I  can.  Give 
me  the  horse  again,  and  I'll  give  you  a  couple  of  dol 
lars  more." 

The  liveryman  led  the  horse  out,  but  not  without 
many  provisionary  cautions  as  to  the  care  which  was 
to  be  taken  of  him,  the  damages  which  would  ensue  if 
it  were  not.  He  was  not'  to  be  ridden  beyond  mid- 


NIGGER  JEFF  83 

night.  If  one  were  wanted  for  longer  than  that 
Davies  must  get  hiirn  elsewhere  or  com,e  and  get  an 
other,  to  all  of  which  Davies  prompt!)^  agreed.  He 
then  mounted  and  rode  away. 

When  he  reached  the  corner  again  several  of  the 
men  who  had  gone  for  their  horses  were  already  there, 
ready  to  start.  The  young  man  who  had  brought  the 
news  had  long  since  dashed  off  to  other  parts. 

Davies  waited  to  see  which  road  this  new  company 
would  take.  Then  through  as  pleasant  a  country  as 
one  would  wish  to  see,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  with 
charming  vistas  breaking  upon  the  gaze  at  every  turn, 
he  did  the  riding  of  his  life.  So  disturbed  was  the 
reporter  by  the  grim  turn  things  had  taken  that  he 
scarcely  noted  the  beauty  that  was  stretched  before 
him,  save  to  note  that  it  was  so.  Death!  Death! 
The  proximity  of  involuntary  and  enforced  death  was 
what  weighed  upon  him  now. 

In  about  an  hour  the  company  had  come  in  sight 
of  the  sheriff,  who,  with  two  other  men,  was  driving  a 
wagon  he  had  borrowed  along  a  lone  country  road. 
The  latter  was  sitting  at  the  back,  a  revolver  in  each 
hand,  his  face  toward  the  group,  which  at  sight  of 
him  trailed  after  at  a  respectful  distanceV  Ekcited  as 
every  one  was,  there  was  no  disposition,  for  the  time 
being  at  least)  to  halt  the  progress  of  the  law^- 

"He's  in  that  wagon,"  Davies  heard  one  man  say. 
''Don't  you  see  they've  got  him  in  there  tied  and 
laid  down?" 

Davies  looked. 

"That's  right,"  said  another.     "I  see  him  now." 

"What  we  ought  to  do,"  said  a  third,  who  was  rid 
ing  near  the  front,  "is  to  take  him  away  and  hang 


84  NIGGER  JEFF 

him.     That's  just  what  he  deserves,  and  that's  what 
he'll  get  before  we're  through  to-day." 

"Yes !"  called  the  sheriff,  who  seemed  to  have  heard 
this.  "You're  not  goin'  to  do  any  hangin'  this  day,  so 
you  just  might  as  well  go  on  back."  He  did  not  ap 
pear  to  be  much  troubled  by  the  appearance  of  the 
crowd. 

"Where's  old\  man  Whitaker?"  asked  one  of  the 
men  who  seemeo\  to  feel  that  they  needed  a  leader. 
"He'd  get  him  qui\:k  enough!" 

"He's  with  the  other  crowd,  down  below  Olney," 
was  the  reply. 

"Somebody  ought  to  go  an'  tell  him." 

"Clark's  gone,"  assured  another,  who  hoped  for  the 
worst. 

Davies  rode  among  the  company  a  prey  to  mingled 
and  singular  feelings.  He  was  very  much  excited  and 
yet  depressed  by  the  character  of  the  crowd  which, 
in  so  far  as  he  could  see,  was  largely  impelled  to  its 
jaunt  by  curiosity  and  yet  also  able  under  sufficient 
motivation  on  the  part  of  some \3ne — any  one,  really 
— to  kill  too.  There  was  not  so\  much  daring  as  a 
desire  to  gain  daring  from  others,  ah  unconscious  wish 
or  impulse  to  organize  the  total  strength  or  will  of 
those  present  into  one  strength  or  one  will,  sufficient  to 
overcome  the  sheriff  and  inflict  death  upon  his  charge. 
It  was  strange — almost  intellectually  incomprehensible 
— and  yet  so  it  was.  IfThe  men  were  plainly  afraid 
of  the  determined  sheriff.  They  thought  something 
ought  to  be  done,  but  they  did  not  feel  like  getting 
inta  trouble. 

X^xMathews,  a  large  solemn,  sage>i>rown  man  in  worn 
clothes   and   a    faded    brown   hat,^  contemplated    the 


NIGGER  JEFF  85 

recent  vaddition  to  his  trailers  with  apparent  indiffer 
ence.  XS^eemingly  he  was  determined  to  protect  his 
man  and  avoid  mob  justice,  come  what  may.  A  mob 
should  noihave  him  if  he  had  to  shoot,  and  if  he  shot 
it  would  be  to  RTH>  Vpinally,  since  the  company  thus 
added  to  did  not  dash  upon  him,  he  seemingly  de 
cided  to  scare  them  off.  Apparently  he  thought  he 
could  do  this,  since\they  trailed  like  calves. 

"Stop  a  minute!"  he  called  to  his  driver. 

The  latter  pulled  up.  Sordid  the  crowd  behind. 
Then  the  sheriff  stood  over  tnfe  prostrate  body  of  the 
negro,  who  lay  in  the  jolting*  wagon  beneath  him, 
and  called  back: 

"Go  'way  from  here,  you  people !  Go  on,  now !  I 
won't  have  you  follerin'  after  me!"  • 

"Give  us  the  nigger !"  yelled  one  in  a  half -banter  ing, 
half-derisive  tone  of  voice. 

"I'll  give  ye  just  two  minutes  to  go  on  back  out  o' 
this  road,"  returned  the  sheriff  grimly,  pulling  out  his 
watch  and  looking  at  it.  They  were  about  a  hundred 
feet  apart.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  clear  you  out!" 

"Give  ii^  the  nigger!" 

"I  know  vou,  Scott,"  answered  Mathews,  recog 
nizing  the  voice.  "I'll  arrest  every  last  one  of  ye  to 
morrow.  Mark  my  word!" 

The  company  listened  in  silence,  the  horses  champ 
ing  and  twisting. 

"We've  got  a  right  to  foller,"  answered  one  of  the 
men. 

"I  give  ye  fair  warning,"  said  the  sheriff,  jumping 
from  his  wagon  and  leveling  his  pistols  as  he  ap 
proached.  "When  I  count  five  I'll  begin  to  shoot !" 


86  NIGGER  JEFF 

He  was  a  serious  and  stalwart  figure  as  he  ap 
proached,  and  the  crowd  fell  back  a  little. 

"Git  out  o'  this  now !"  he  yelled.     "One— Two " 

The  company  turned  completely  and  retreated, 
Davies  amo^g  them. 

"We'll  folleK  him  when  he  gits  further  on,"  said 
one  of  the  men  \n  explanation. 

"He's  got  to  d\>  it,"  said  another.  "Let  him  git  a 
little  ways  aheadA 

The  sheriff  returned  to  his  wagon  and  drove  on. 
He  seemed,  however\to  realize  that  he  would  not  be 
obeyed  and  that  safety  H^ay  in  haste  alone.  His  wagon 
was  traveling  fast.  If  ojily  he  could  lose  them  or  get 
a  good  start  he  might  possibly  get  to  Clayton  and  the 
strong  county  jail  by  morning.  His  followers,  how 
ever,  trailed  him  swiftly  as  inight  be,  determined  not 
to  be  left  behind. 

"He's  goin'  to  Baldwin,"  said  one  of  the  company 
of  which  Davies  was  a  member. 

"Where's  that?"  asked  Davies. 

"Over  west  o'  here,  about  four  miles." 

"Why  is  he  going  there?" 

"That's  where  he  lives.  I  guess  he  thinks  if  he 
kin  git  'im  over  there  he  kin  purtect  'im  till  he  kin  git 
more  help  from  Clayton.  I  cal'late  he'll  try  an'  take 
'im  over  yet  to-night,  or  early  in  the  mornin'  shore." 

Davies  smiled  at  the  man's  English.  This  country 
side  lingo  always  fascinated  him. 

Yet  the  men  lagged,  hesitating  as  to  what  to  do. 
They  did  not  want  to  lose  si&ht  of  Matthews,  and  yet 
cowardice  controlled  them.  'They  did  not  want  to 
get  into  direct  altercation  wiA  the  law.  It  wasn't 
their  place  to,  hang  the  man,  although  plainly  they 


NIGGER  JEFF  87 

felt  that  he  ought  to  be  hanged,  and  that  it  would  be 
a  stirring  and'  exciting  thing  if1  he  were.  Conse 
quently  they  desired  to  watch  and  b^  on  hand — to  get 
old  Whitaker  and  his  son  Jake,  if  \they  could,  who 
were  out  looking  elsewhere.  They  wanted  to  see  what 
the  father  and  brother  would  do. 

The  quandary  was  solved  by  one  of  the  men,  who 
suggested  that  they  could  get  to  Baldwin  by  going 
back  to  Pleasant  Valley  and  taking  the  Sand  River 
pike,  and  that  in  the  meantime  they  might  come  upon 
Whitaker  and  his  son  en  route,  or  leave  word  at  his 
house,  yfrt  was  a  shorter  cutv  than  this  the  sheriff 
was  taking,  although  he  woulA  get  there  first  now. 
Possibly  they  could  beat  him  aryleast  to  Clayton,  if 
he  attempted  to  go  on.  The  ClaVton  road  was  back 
via  Pleasant  Valley,  or  near  it,  anck  easily  intercepted. 
Therefore,  while  one  or  two  remained  to  trail  the 
sheriff  and  give  the  alarm  in  case  hV  did  attempt  to 
go  on  to  Clayton,  the  rest,  followed  b\  Davies,  set  off 
at  a  gallop  to  Pleasant  Valley.  It  was  nearly  dusk 
now  when  they  arrived  and  stopped  at  they  corner  store 
— supper  time.  The  fires  of  evening  meals  were 
marked  ,by  upcurling  smoke  ^rom  chimneys.  Here, 
somehow^  the  zest  to  follow  seemed  to  depart.  Evi 
dently  th§  sheriff  had  worsted'v  them  for  the  night. 
Morg  Whitaker,  the  father,  had  not  been  found; 
neither  had  Jake.  Perhaps  they  had  better  eat.  Two 
or  three  had  already  secretly  fallen  ^away.N/ 

They  were  telling  the  news  of  what  had  occurred 
so  far  to.pne  pf  the  twostorel^eegers^jwjio  kept  the 
place,  wh€tt^$udcienly  JaloTWhitaker,  the  girTs  brother, 
and  several  companions  came  riding  up.  They  had 
been  scouring  the  territory  to  the  north  of  the  town, 


88  NIGGER  JEFF 

and  were  hot  and  tired.  Plainly  they  were  unaware 
of  the  developments  of  which  the  crowd  had  been  a 
part. 

"The  sheriff's  got  'im!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  com 
pany,  with  that  blatance  which  always  accompanies 
the  telling  of  great  news  in  small  rural  companies. 
"He  taken  him  over  to  Baldwin  in  a  wagon  a  coupla 
hours  ago." 

"Which  way  did  he  go?"  asked  the  son,  whose 
hardy  figure,  worn,  hand-me-down  clothes  and  rakish 
hat  showed  up  picturesquely  as  he  turned  here  and 
there  on  his  horse. 

"  'Cross  Seller'  Lane.  You  won't  git  'em  that-a- 
way,  though,  Jake.  He's  already  over  there  by  now. 
Better  take  the  short  cut." 

A  babble  of  voices  now  made  the  scene  more  inter 
esting.  One  told  how  the  negro  had  been  caught,  an 
other  that  the  sheriff  was  defiant,  a  third  that  men 
were  still  tracking  him  or  over  there  watching,  until 
all  the  chief  points  of  the  drama  had  been  spoken  if 
not  heard. 

Instantly  suppers  were\  forgotten.  The  whole  cus 
tomary  order  of  the  evehing  was  overturned  once 
more.  The  company  started  off  on  another  excited 
jaunt,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  \Jirough  the  lovely  coun 
try  that  lay  between  Baldwin  a^id  Pleasant  Valley. 

By  now  Davies  was  very  weary  of  this  procedure 
and  of  his  saddle.  He  wondered  when,  if  ever,  this 
story  was  to  culminate,  let  alone  he  write  it.  Tragic 
as  it  might  prove,  he  could  not  nevertheless  spend  an 
indefinite  period  trailing  a  possibility,  and  yet,  so 
great  was  the  potentiality  of  the  present  situation,  he 
dared  not  leave.  By  contrast  with  the  horror  im- 


NIGGER  JEFF  89 

pending,  as  he  now  noted,  the  night  was  so  beautiful 
that  it  was  all  but  poignant.  Stars  were  already  be 
ginning  to  shine.  Distant  lamps  twinkled  like  yellow 
eyes  from  the  cottages  in  the  valleys  and  on  the  hill 
sides.  The  air  was  fresh  and  tender.  Some  pea 
fowls  were  crying  afar  off,  and  the  east  promised  a 
golden  moon. 

Silently  the  assembled  company  trotted  on — no 
more  than  a  score  in  all.  ^Tn  the  tiusk,  and  with  Jake 
ahead,  it  seemed  too  grim  a  pilgrimage  for  joking. 
Young  Jake,  riding  silently  toward  the  front,  looked 
as  if  tragedy  were  all  he  craved.  His  friends  seemed 
considerately  to  withdraw  f rpn  him,  seeing  that  he 
was  the  aggrieved.A  t 

*  After  an  hour's  riding  Baldwin  came  into  view,  ly 
ing  in  a  sheltering /cup  of  low  hills.  X  Already  its  lights 
were  twinkling  softly  and  there  was  /till  an  air  of 
honest  firesides  and  cheery  suppers  abput  it  which  ap 
pealed  to  Davies  in  his  hungry  sta|e.  Still,  he  had 
no  thought  now  of  anything  save  this  pursuits 

*Once  in  the  village,  the  company  was  greeted  by 
calls  of  recognition.  Everybody  seemed  to  know 
what  they  had  come  foiy^  TM£  sheriff  and  his  charge 
were  still  there,  so  a  dozen  citizens  volunteered.  The 
local  storekeepers  and  loungers  followe^  the  cavalcade 
up  the  street  to  the  sheriff's  house,  fo/  the  riders  had 
now  fallen  into  a  solemp  walk. 

"You  won't  get  him  though,  boys,"  saicj  one  whom 
Davies  later  learned  was  Seavey,  the  village  post 
master  and  telegraph  operator,  a  rather  youthful  per 
son  of  between  twenty-five  and  thirty,  as  they  passed 
his.  door,  "He's  got  two  deputies  in  there  with  him., 


90  NIGGER  JEFF 

or  did  have,  and  they  say  he's  going  to  take  him  over 
to  Clayton." 

At  the  first  street  corner  they  were  joined  by  the 
several  men  who  had  followed  the  sheriff. 

"He  tried  to  give  us  the  slip,"  they  volunteered  ex 
citedly,  "but  he's  got  the  nigger  in  the  house,  there, 
down  in  the  cellar.  The  deputies  ain't  with  him. 
They've  gone  somewhere  for  help — Clayton,  maybe." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"We  saw  'em  go  out  that  back  way.  We  think  we 
did,  anyhow." 

A  hundred  feet  from  the  sheriff's  little  white  cot 
tage,  which  backed  up  against  a  sloping  field,  the  men 
parleyed.  Then  Jake  announced  that  he  proposed  to 
go  boldly  up  to  the  sheriff's  door  and  demand  the 
negro. 

"If  he  don't  turn  him  out  I'll  break  in  the  door  an* 
take  him!"  he  said. 

"That's  right!  We'll  stand  by  you,  Whitaker," 
commented  several. 

Ky  now  the  throng  of  unmounted  natives  had 
gathered.  The  whole  village  was  up  and  about,  its 
one  street  alive  andVunning  with  people.  Heads  ap 
peared  at  doors  and  windows.  Riders  pranced  up  and 
down,  hallooing.  A  feV  revolver  shots  were  heard. 
Presently  the  mob  gathered  even  closer  to  the  sheriff's 
gate,  and  Jake  stepped  forward  as  leaded  Instead, 
however,  of  going  boldly  up  to  the  door  as  at  first 
it  appeared  he  would,  he  stopped  at  the  gate,  calling  to 
the  sheriff. 

"Hello,  Mathews!" 

"Eh,  eh,  eh!"  bellowed  the  crowd. 

The  call  was  repeated.     Still  no  answer.     Appar- 


NIGGER  JEFF  91 


92  NIGGER  JEFF 

Mathews  waved  his  gun  slightly. 

"You'd  better  go  away  from  here  now,"  cautioned 
the  sheriff.  "I'm  tellin'  ye!  I'll  have  warrants  out 
for  the  lot  o'  ye,  if  ye  don't  mind!" 

The  crowd  continued  to  simmer  and  stew,  while 
Jake  stood  as  before.  He  was  very  pale  and  tense, 
but  lacked  initiative. 

"He  won't  shoot,"  called  some  one  at  the  back  of 
the  crowd.  "Why  don't  you  go  in,  Jake,  an'  git  him  ?" 

"Sure'     Rush  in.     That's  it!"  observed  a  second. 

"He  won't,  eh?"  replied  the  sheriff  softly.  Then 
he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "The  first  man  that  comes 
inside  that  gate  takes  the  consequences." 

No  one  ventured  inside  the  gate;  many  even  fell 
back.  It  seemed  as  if  the  planned  assault  had  come 
to  nothing. 

"Why  not  go  around  the  back  way?"  called  some 
one  else. 

"Try  it !"  replied  the  sheriff.  "See  what  you  find 
on  that  side!  I  told  you  you  couldn't  come  inside. 
You'd  better  go  away  from  here  now  before  ye  git  into 
trouble,"  he  repeated.  "You  can't  come  in,  an'  it'll 
only  mean  bloodshed." 

There  was  more  chattering  and  jesting  while  the 
sheriff  stood  on  guard.  He,  however,  said  no  more. 
Nor  did  he  allow  the  banter,  turmoil  and  lust  for 
tragedy  to  disturb  him.  Only,  he  kept  his  eye  on  Jake, 
on  whose  movements  the  crowd  seemed  to  hang. 

Time  passed,  and  still  nothing  was  done.  The  truth 
was  that  young  Jake,  put  to  the  test,  was  not  suffi 
ciently  courageous  himself,  for  all  his  daring,  and  felt 
the  weakness  of  the  crowd  behind  him.  To  all  intents 
and  purposes  he  was  alone,  for  he  did  not  inspire  con- 


NIGGER  JEFF  93 

fidence.  He  finally  fell  back  a  little,  observing,  "I'll 
git  'im  before  mornin',  all  right,"  and  now  the  crowd 
itself  began  to  disperse,  returning  to  its  stores  and 
homes  or  standing  about  the  postoffice  and  the  one 
village  drugstore.  Finally,  Davies  smiled  and  came 
away.  He  was  sure  he  had  the  story  of  a  defeated 
mob.  The  sheriff  was  to  be  his  great  hero.  He  pro 
posed  to  interview  him  later.  For  the  present,  he 
meant  to  seek  out  Seavey,  the  telegraph  operator,  and 
arrange  to  file  a  message,  then  see  if  something  to  eat 
was  not  to  be  had  somewhere. 

After  a  time  he  found  the  operator  and  told  him 
what  he  wanted — to  write  and  file  a  story  as  he  wrote 
it.  The  latter  indicated  a  table  in  the  little  postoffice 
and  telegraph  station  which  he  could  use.  He  became 
very  much  interested  in  the  reporter  when  he  learned 
he  was  from  the  Times,  and  when  Davies  asked  where 
he  could  get  something  to  eat  said  he  would  run 
across  the  street  and  tell  the  proprietor  of  the  only 
boarding  house  to  fix  him  something  which  he  could 
consume  as  he  wrote.  He  appeared  to  be  interested 
in  how  a  newspaper  man  would  go  about  telling  a 
story  of  this  kind  over  a  wire. 

"You  start  your  story,"  he  said,  "and  Til  come  back 
and  see  if  I  can  get  the  Times  on  the  wire." 

Davies  sat  down  and  began  his  account.  He  was 
intent  on  describing  things  to  date,  the  uncertainty  and 
turmoil,  the  apparent  victory  of  the  sheriff.  Plainly 
the  courage  of  the  latter  had  won,  and  it  was  all  so 
picturesque.  "A  foiled  lynching,"  he  began,  and  as 
he  wrote  the  obliging  postmaster,  who  had  by  now 
returned,  picked  up  the  pages  and  carefully  deciphered 
them  for  himself. 


94  NIGGER  JEFF 

"That's  all  right.  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  the  Times 
now,"  he  commented. 

"Very  obliging  postmaster,"  thought  Davies  as  he 
wrote,  but  he  had  so  often  encountered  pleasant  and 
obliging  people  on  his  rounds  that  he  soon  dropped 
that  thought. 

The  food  was  brought,  and  still  Davies  wrote  on, 
munching  as  he  did  so.  In  a  little  while  the  Times 
answered  an  often-repeated  call. 

"Davies  at  Baldwin,"  ticked  the  postmaster,  "get 
ready  for  quite  a  story !" 

"Let  'er  go!"  answered  the  operator  at  the  Times, 
who  had  been  expecting  this  dispatch. 

As  the  events  of  the  day  formulated  themselves  in 
his  mind,  Davies  wrote  and  turned  over  page  after 
page.  Between  whiles  he  looked  out  through  the 
small  window  before  him  where  afar  off  he  could  see 
a  lonely  light  twinkling  against  a  hillside.  Not  infre 
quently  he  stopped  his  work  to  see  if  anything  new 
was  happening,  whether  the  situation  was  in  any 
danger  of  changing,  but  apparently  it  was  not.  He 
then  proposed  to  remain  until  all  possibility  of  a 
tragedy,  this  night  anyhow,  was  eliminated.  The 
operator  also  wandered  about,  waiting  for  an  accumu 
lation  of  pages  upon  which  he  could  work  but  making 
sure  to  keep  up  with  the  writer.  The  two  became 
quite  friendly. 

Finally,  his  dispatch  nearly  finished,  he  asked  the 

postmaster  to  caution  the  night  editor  at  K to  the 

effect,  that  if  anything  more  happened  before  one  in 
the  morning  he  would  file  it,  but  not  to  expect  any 
thing  more  as  nothing  might  happen.  The  reply  came 


NIGGER  JEFF  95 

hat  he  was  to  remain  and  await  developments.     Then 
le  and  the  postmaster  sat  down  to  talk. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  when  both  had  about  con 
vinced  themselves  that  all  was  over  for  this  night  any- 
low,  and  the  lights  in  the  village  had  all  but  vanished, 
stillness  of  the  purest,  summery-est,  country-est 
quality  having  settled  down,  a  faint  beating  of  hoofs, 
vhich  seemed  to  suggest  the  approach  of  a  large  caval- 
:ade,  could  be  heard  out  on  the  Sand  River  pike  as 
Davies  by  now  had  come  to  learn  it  was,  back  or 
lorthwest  of  the  postoffice.  At  the  sound  the  post- 
naster  got  up,  as  did  Davies,  both  stepping  outside 
ind  listening.  On  it  came,  and  as  the  volume  in- 
:reased,  the  former  said,  "Might  be  help  for  the 
sheriff,  but  I  doubt  it.  I  telegraphed  Clayton  six  times 
.o-day.  They  wouldn't  come  that  way,  though.  It's 
he  wrong  road."  Now,  thought  Davies  nervously, 
liter  all  there  might  be  something  to  add  to  his  story, 
ind  he  had  so  wished  that  it  was  all  over !  Lynchings, 
is  he  now  felt,  were  horrible  things.  He  wished  peo- 
)le  wouldn't  do  such  things — take  the  law,  which  now 
nore  than  ever  he  respected,  into  their  own  hands, 
t  was  too  brutal,  cruel.  That  negro  cowering  there 
n  the  dark  probably,  and  the  sheriff  all  taut  and  tense, 
jjworrying  over  his  charge  and  his  duty,  were  not  happy 
jthings  to  contemplate  in  the  face  of  such  a  thing  as 
Ithis.  It  was  true  that  the  crime  which  had  been  com- 
|~nitted  was  dreadful,  but  still  why  couldn't  people 
illow  the  law  to  take  its  course  ?  It  was  so  much  bet- 
er.  The  law  was  powerful  enough  to  deal  with  cases 
f  this  kind. 

"They're  comin'  back,  all  right,"  said  the  postmaster 
;olemnly,  as  he  and  Davies  stared  in  the  direction  of 


96  NIGGER  JEFF 

the  sound  which  grew  louder  from  moment  to  moment. 
"It's  not  any  help  from  Clayton,  I'm  afraid." 
"By  George,  I  think  you're  right!"  answered  the  re 
porter,  something  telling  him  that  more  trouble  was  at 
hand.^    "Here  they  come!" 

A^^Lwte  sproke  trrere  was  a  clattering  of  hoofs  and 
^  crunching  of  saddle  girths  as  a  large  company  of  men 
dashed  up  the  road  and  turned  into  the  narrow  street 
of  the  village,  the -figure ^of  Jake  Whitaker  and/an 
older  bearded  man  in  a  wide  black  hat  riding  4ide  by 

side)  in  front. 

h     j*>y 
"There' sjaj&e/'  said  the  postmaster,  "attdjnat  s  his 

father  ri4i«§^-kes*de-~him  there.  The  old  man's  a 
terror  when  he  gets  his  dander  up.  Sompin's  sure  to 
happen  now." 

Davies  realized  that  in  his  absence  writing  a  new 
turn  had  been  given  to  things.  Evidently  the  son  had 
returned  to  Pleasant  Valley  a,nd  organized  a  new 
posse  or  gone  out  to  meet  his  father. 

Instantly  the  place  was  astir  again.  Lights  ap 
peared  in  doorways  and  windows,  and  both  were 
thrown  open.  People  were  leaning  or  gazing  out  to 
see  what  new  movement  was  afoot.  Davies  noted  at 
once  that  there  was  none  of  the  brash  enthusiasm 
about  this  company  such  as  had  characterized  the  pre 
vious  descent.  There  was  grimness  everywhere,  and 
he  now  began  to  feel  that  this  was  the  beginning  of 
the  end.  After  the  cavalcade  had  passed\down  the 
street  toward  the  sheriff's  house,  which  was  quite  dark 
now,  he  ran  after  it,  arriving  a  few  moments  after 
the  former  which  was  already  in  part  dismotmted. 
The  townspeople  followed.  The  sheriff,  as  it\pw 
developed,  had  not  relaxed  any  of  his  vigilance,  how- 


NIGGER  JEFF  97 

ever  ;  he  was  not  sleeping,  and  as  the  crowd  reappeared 
the  light  inside  reappeared.x?\ 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  was  almost  over 
head,  Davies  was  able  to  make  out  several  of  his 
companions  of  the  afternoon,  and  Jake,  the  son. 
There  were  many  more,  though,  now,  whom  he  did 
not  know,  and  foremost  among  them  this  old  man. 

The  latter  was  strong,  iron-gray,  and  wore  a  full 
beard.  He  looked  very  much  like  a  blacksmith. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  the  old  man,"  advised  the  post 
master,  who  had  by  now  come  up  and  was  standing 
by. 

While  they  were  still  looking,  the  old  man  went 
boldly  ferward  to-tke  little  front  porch  of  the  house 
and  knocked  at  the  door^  Some  one  lifted  a  curtain 
at  the  window  and  peepea  outr* 

"Hello,    in   there!''    cried   the  old   man,   knocking 


"What  do  you  want?"  asked  a-  voice. 

"I  want  that  nigger!" 

"Well,  you  can't  have  him  !  I've  told  you  people 
that  once." 

"Bring  him  out  or  I'll  break  down  the  door!"  said 
the  old  man. 

"If  you  do  it's  at  your  own  risk.  I  know  you, 
JWhitaker,  an'  you  know  me.  I'll  give  ye  two  minutes 
to  get  off  that  porch!" 

"I  want  that  nigger,  I  tell  ye  !" 

"If  ye  don't  git  off  that  porch  I'll  fire  through  the 
door,"  said  the  voice  solemnly.  "One  —  Two  -  " 

The  old  man  backed  cautiously  away. 

"Come  out,  Mathews!"  yelled  the  crowd.     "You've 


98  NIGGER  JEFF 

got  to  give  him  -up  ftrrs-ttme.  We  ain't  goin'  back 
without  him." 

Slowly  the  door  opened,  as  if  the  individual  within 
were  very  well  satisfied  as  to  his  power  to  handle  the 
mob.  He-had  done  it  once  before  this  night,  why 
not  again?  It  revealed  his  tall  form,  armed  with  his 
shotgun.  He  looked  around  very  stolidly,  and  then 
addressed  the  old  mVi  as  one  would  a  friend. 

"Ye  can't  have  him,  Morgan,"  he  said.  "It's  ag'in' 
the  law.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Law  or  no  law,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  want  that 
nigger!" 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  let  you  have  him,  Morgan.  It's 
ag'in'  the  law.  You  know  you  oughtn't  to  be  comin' 
around  here  at  this  time  o'  night  actin'  so." 

"Well,  I'll  take  him  then,"  said  the  old  man,  mak 
ing  a  move. 

"Stand  back!"  shouted  the  sheriff,  leveling  his  gun 
on  the  instant.  "I'll  blow  ye  into  kingdom  come,  sure 
as  hell!"- 

A  noticeable  movement  on  the  part  of  the  crowd 
ceased.  The  sheriff  lowered  his  weapon  as  if  he 
thought  the  dangefv  were  once  more  over. 

"You-all  ought  to\be  ashamed  of  yerselves,"  he  went 
on,  his  voice  sinking^  to  a  gentle  neighborly  reproof, 
"tryin'  to  upset  the  laW  this  way." 

"The  nigger  didn't  Vupset  no  law,  did  he?"  asked 
one  derisively.  \ 

"Well,  the  law's  goirV  to  take  care  of  the  nigger 
now,"  Mathews  made  anfewer. 

"Give  us  that  scoundrel  Mathews;  you'd  better  do 
it,"  said  the  old  man.  "Ml  save  a  heap  o'  trouble." 

"I'll  not  argue  with  ye,  Morgan.     I  said  ye  couldn't 


NIGGER  JEFF  99 

have  tt»r-a»L-ye"Tan't.  If  ye  want  bloodshed,  all 
right.  But  don't  blame  me.  I'll  kill  the  first  man  that 
tries  to  make  a  move  this  way." 

He  shifted  his  gun  handily  and  waited.  The  crowd 
stood  outside  his  little  fence  murmuring. 

Presently  the  old  man  retired  and  spoke  to  several 
others.  There  was  more  murmuring,  and  then  he 
came  back  to  the  dead  line. 

"We  don't  want  to  cause  trouble,  Mathews,"  he 
began  explanatively,  moving  his  hand  oratorically, 
"but  we  think  you  ought  to  see  that  it  won't  do  any 

good  to  stand  out.     We  think  that " 

Davies  and  the  postmaster  were  watching  young 
Jake,  whose  peculiar  attitude  attracted  their  attention. 
The  latter  was  standing  poised  at  the  edge  of  the 
crowd,  evidently  seeking  to  remain  unobserved.  His 
eyes  were  on  the  sheriff,  who  was  hearkening  to  the 
old  man.  Suddenly,  as  the  father  talked  and  when  the 
sheriff  seemed  for  a  moment  mollified  and  unsuspect 
ing,  he  made  a  quick  run  for  the  porch.  There  was 
an  intense  movement  all  along  the  line  as  the  life  and 

|  death    of    the   deed   became    apparent.     Quickly   the 

|  sheriff  drew  his  gun  to  his  shoulder.  Both  triggers 
were  pressed  at  the  same  time,  and  the  gun  spoke,  but 

i  not  before  Jake  was  in  and  under  him.  The  latter 
had  been  in  sufficient  time  to  knock  the  gun  barrel  up 
ward  and  fall  upon  his  man.  Both  shots  blazed  harm- 

|  lessly  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  in  red  puffs,  and 
then  followed  a  general  onslaught.  Men  leaped  the 
fence  by  tens  and  crowded  upon  the  little  cottage.  They 
swarmed  about  every  side  of  the  house  and  crowded 
upon  the  porch,  where  four  men  were  scuffling  with 
the  sheriff.  The  latter  soon  gave  up,  vowing  ven- 


ioo  NIGGER  JEFF 

geance  and  the  law.  Torches  were  brought,  and  a 
rope.  A  wagon  drove  up  and  was  backed  into  the 
yard.  Then  began  the  calls  for  the  negro. 

As  Davies  conternplated  all  this  he  could  not  help 
thinking  of  the  negro,  who  during  all  this  turmoil  must 
have  been  crouching-,  in  his  corner  in  the  cellar, 
trembling  for  his  fate.  \  Now  indeed  he  must  realize 
that  his  end  was  near.  ^Ie  could  not  have  dozed  or 
lost  consciousness  during  "the  intervening  hours,  but 
must  have  been  cowering  th^re,  wondering  and  pray 
ing.  All  the  while  he  mustxhave  been  terrified  lest 
the  sheriff  might  not  get  him  away  in  time.  Now, 
at  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  and  the  new  murmurs  of 
contention,  how  must  his  body  \juake  and  his  teeth 
chatter ! 

"I'd  hate  to  be  that  nigger,"  commented  the  post 
master  grimly,  "but  you  can't  do  anything  with  'em. 
The  county  oughta  sent  help." 

"It's  horrible,  horrible !"  was  all  Davies  could  say. 

He  moved  close*4o  the  house,  with  the  crowd,  eager 
to  observe  every  detail^  the  procedure.  Now  it  was 
that  a  number  of  the  men,  as  eager  in  their  search  as 
bloodhounds,  appeared  at  a  low  cellar  entryway  at  the 
side  of  the  house  carrying  a  rope.  Others  followed 
with  torches.  Headed  by  father  and  son  they  began 
to  descend  into  the  dark  hole.  With  impressive  dar 
ing,  Davies,  who  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  would 
be  allowed  but  who  was  also  determined  if  possible 
to  see,  followed. 

Suddenly,  in  the* farthest  corner,  he  espied  Ingalls. 
The  latter  in  his  fear  and  agony  had  worked  himself 
into  a  crouching  position,  as  if  he  were  about  to  spring. 


NIGGER  JEFF  101 

His  nails  were  apparently  forced  into  the  earth.     His 
eyes  were  rolling,  his  mouth  foaming. 

"Oh,  my  Lawd,  boss/'  he  moaned,  gazing  almost 
as  one  blind,  at  the  lights,  "oh,  my  Lawd,  boss,  don't 
kill  me!  I  won't  do  it  no  mo'.  I  didn't  go  to  do  it. 
I  didn't  mean  to  dis  time.  I  was  just  drunk,  boss. 
Oh,  my  Lawd !  My  Lawd !"  His  teeth  chattered  the 
while  his  mouth  seemed  to  gape  open.  He  was  no 
longer  sane  really,  but  kept  repeating  monotonously, 
"Oh,  my  Lawd !" 

"Here  he  is,  boys !    Pull  him  out,"  cried  the  father. 

The  negro  now  gave  one  yell  of  terror  and  collapsed, 
falling  prone.  He  quite  boundect\as  he  did  so,  com 
ing  down  with  a  dead  chug  on  \he  earthen  floor. 
Reason  had  forsaken  him.  He  wasVy  now  a  grovel 
ing,  foaming  brute.  The  last  gleam\of  intelligence 
was  that  which  notified  him  of  the  set  e)^s  of  his  pur 
suers. 

Davies,  who  by  now  had  retreated  to  the  grass  out 
side  before  this  sight,  was  standing  but  ten  feet  back 
when  they  began  to  reappear  after  seizing  and  binding 
him.  Although  shaken  to  the  roots  of  his  being,  he 
still  had  all  the  cool  observing  powers  of  the  trained 
and  relentless  reporter.  Even  now  he  noted  the  color 
values  of  the  scene,  the  red,  smoky  heads  of  the 
torches,  the  disheveled  appearance  of  the  men,  the 
scuffling  and  pulling.  Then  all  at  once  he  clapped  his 
hands  over  his  mouth,  almost  unconscious  of  what  he 
was  doing. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  whispered,  his  voice  losing 
power. 

The  sickening  sight  was  that  of  the  negro,  foaming 
at  the  mouth,  bloodshot  as  to  his  eyes,  his  hands  work- 


102  NIGGER  JEFF 

ing  convulsively,  being  dragged  up  the  cellar  steps 
feet  foremost.  They  had  tied  a  rope  about  his  waist 
and  feet,  and  so  had  hauled  him  out,  leaving  his  head 
to  hang  and  drag.  The  black  face  was  distorted  be 
yond  all  human  semblance. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  said  Davies  again,  biting  his  fingers 
unconsciously. 

The  crowd  gathered  about  now  more  closely  than 
ever,  more  horror-stricken  than  gleeful  at  their  own 
work.  None  apparently  had  eitHe^  the  courage  or  the 
charity  to  gainsay  what  was  beirt^  done.  With  a 
kind  of  mechanical  deftness  now  the  negro  was  rudely 
lifted  and  like  a  sack  of  wheat  thrown  \nto  the  wagon 
Father  and  son  nowNmounted  in  front\  to  drive  and 
the  crowd  took  to  theV  horses,  content  Ho  clatter,  a 
silent  cavalcade,  behind.^  As  Davies  afterwards  con 
cluded,  they  were  not  so  much  hardened  lynchers  per 
haps  as  curious  spectators,  the  majority  of  them,  eager 
for  any  variation — any  excuse  for  one — to  the  dreary 
commonplaces  of  their  existences.  The  task  to  most 
— all  indeed — was  entirely  new.  Wide-eyed  and 
nerve-racked,  Davies  ran  for  his  own  horse  and  mount 
ing  followed.  He  was  so  excited  he  scarcely  knew 
what  he  was  doing. 

Slowly  the  silent  company  now  took  its  way  up  the 
Sand  River  pike  whence  it  had  come.  The  moon  was 
still  high,  pouring  down  a  wash  of  silvery  light.  ^LS 
Davies  rode  he  wondered  how  he  was  to  complete  his 
telegram,  but  decideck  that  hexcould  not.  When  this 
was  over  there  would-be  no  time.  How  long  would 
it  be  before  they  would  really  hang  him  ?  And  would 
they?  The  whole  procedure  seemed  so  unreal,  so  bar- 


NIGGER  JEFF  103 

baric  that  he  could  scarcely  believe  it — that  he  was 
a  part  of  it.  Still  they  rode  on. 

"Are  they  really  going  to  hang  him?"  he  asked  of 
one  who  rode  beside  him,  a  total  stranger  who  seemed 
however  not  to  resent  his  presence. 

"That's  what  they  got  'im  fer,"  answered  the 
stranger. 

And  think,  he  thought  to  himself,  to-morrow  night 
he  would  be  resting  in  his  own  wod  bed  back  in 
K ! 

Davies  dropped  behind  again  and  into  silence  and 
tried  to  recover  his  nerves.  He  could  scarcely  realize 
that  he,  ordinarily  accustomedyo  the  routine  of  the 
city,  its  humdrum  and  at  least  \nitward  social  regu 
larity,  was  a  part  of  this.  The  nrght  was  so  soft,  the 
air  so  refreshing.  The  shadowy  trees  were  stirring 
with  a  cool  night  wind.  Why  should  any  one  have 
to  die  this  way?  Why  couldrft  the  people  of  Baldwin 
•or  elsewhere  have  bestirred  themselves  >on  the  side  of 
the  law  before  this,  just  let  it  take  its  course?  Both 
father  and  son  now  seemed  brutal,  the  injury  to  the 
daughter  and  sister  not  so  vital  as  all  this.  IStill,  also, 
•custom  seemed  to  require  death  in  this  way  Xpr  this. 
It  was  like  some  axiomatic,  mathematic  law-Vhard, 
"but  custom.  The  silent  company,  an  articulated,  me 
chanical  and  therefore  terrible  thing,  moved  on.  It 
also  was  axiomatic,  mathematic.  After  a  time  he 
«drew  near  to  the  wagon  and  looked  at  the  negro  again. 

The  latter,  as  Davies  was  glad  to  note,  seemed  still 
out  of  his:  sense.  He  was  breathing  heavily  and 
groaning,  but  probably  not  with  any  conscious  pain. 
His  eves  were  fixed  and  staring,  his  face  and  hands 


104  NIGGER  JEFF 

bleeding  as  if  they  had  been  scratched  or  trampled 
upon.  He  was  crumpled  limply. 

But  Davies  could  stand  it  no  longer  now.  He  fell 
back,  sick  at  heart,  content  to  see  no  more.  It  seemed 
a  ghastly,  murderous  thing  to  do.  Still  the  company 
moved  on  and  he  followed,  past  fields  lit  white  by  the 
moon,  under  dark,  silent  groups  of  trees,  through 
which  the  moonlight  fell  in  patches,  up  low  hills  and 
down  into  valleys,  until  at  last  a  little  stream  came  into 
view$  the  same  littie_streanvas-it  proved,  which  he  had 
seen  earlier  to-day  and  for  a  bridge  over  which  they 
were  heading,  tfee  it  ran  now,  sparkling  like  elec 
tricity  in  the  night.  After  a  time  the  road  drew 
closer  to  the  water  and  then  crossed  directly  over  the 
bridge,  which  could  be  seen  a  little  way  ahead. 

Up  to  this  the  company  now  rode  and  then  halted. 
The  wagon  was  driven  up  on  the  bridge,  and  father 
and  son  got  out.  All  the  riders,  including  Davies, 
dismounted,  and  a  full  score  of  them  gathered  about 
the  wagon  from  which  the  negro  was  lifted,  quite  as 
one  might  a  bag.  Fortunately,  as  Davies  now  told 
himself,  he  was  still  unconscious,  an  accidental  mercy. 
Nevertheless  he  decided  \now  that  he  could  not  witness 
the  end,  and  went  dowti  by  the  waterside  slightly 
above  the  bridge.  He  wa^  not,  after  all,  the  utterly 
relentless  reporter.  From  where  he  stood,  however, 
he  could  see  long  beams  of  iron  projecting  out  over  the 
water,  where  the  bridge  was  braced,  and  some  of  the 
men  fastening  a  rope  to  a  beam,  and  then  he  could 
see  that  they  were  fixing  the  other  end  around  the 
negro's  neck. 

Finally  the  curious  company  stood  back,  and  he 
turned  his  face  away. 


NIGGER  JEFF  105 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?"  a  voice  demanded. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  negro  was  probably 
lolling  and  groaning,  quite  as  unconscious  as  he  was 
before. 

Then  came  the  concerted  action  of  a  dozen  men, 
the  lifting  of  the  black  mass  into  the  air,  and  then 
Davies  saw  the  limp  form  plunge  down  and  pull  up 
with  a  creaking  sound  of  rope.  In  the  weak  moon 
light  it  seemed  as  if  the  body  were  struggling,  but 
he  could  not  tell.  He  watched,  wide-mouthed  and 
silent,  and  then  the  body  ceased  moving.  Then  after 
a  time  he  heard  the  company  making  ready  to  depart, 
and  finally  it  did  so,  leaving  him  quite  indifferently  to 
himself  and  his  thoughts.  Only  the  black  mass  sway 
ing  in  the  pale  light  over  the  glimmering  water  seemed 
human  a..d  alive,  his  sole  companion. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  bank  and  gazed  in  silence. 
Now  the  horror  was  gone.  The  suffering  was  ended. 
He  was  no  longer  afraid.  Everything  was  summery 
and  beautiful.  The  whole  cavalcade  had  disappeared; 
the  moon  finally  sank.  His  horse,  tethered  to  a  sap 
ling  beyond  the  bridge,  waited  patiently.  Still  he  sat^ 
-He  might  now  have  hurried  back  to  the  srrtall  post- 
office  in  Baldwin  and  attempted  to  file  additional  de 
tails  of  this  story,  providing  he  could  find  Seavey,  but 
it  would  have  done  no  good/  It  was  quite  too  late,~ 
and  anyhow  what  did  it  matter?  No  other  reporter ^j^t 
had  been  present,  and  he  could  write  a  fuller,  sadder, 
more  colorful  story  on  the  morrow.  He  wondered 
idly  what  had  become  of  Seavey?  AVhv  had  he  not 
followed?  Life  seemed  so  sad,  so  str&ige,  so  mys 
terious,  so  inexplicable.y 

As  he  still  sat  there  the  light  of  morning  broke,  a 


io6  NIGGER  JEFF 

tender  lavender  and  gray  in  the  east.  Then  came  the 
roseate  hues  of  dawn,  all  the  wondrous  coloring  of 
celestial  halls,  to  which  the  waters  of  the  stream  re 
sponded.  The  white  pebbles  shone  pinkily  at  the  bot 
tom,  the  grass  and  sedges  first  black  now  gleamed  a 
translucent  green.  Still  the  body  hung  there  black 
and  limp  against  the  sky,  and  now  a  light  breeze 
sprang  up  and  stirred  it  visibly.  At  last  he  arose, 
mounted  his  horse  and  made  his  way  back  to  Pleasant 
Valley,  too  tull  of  the  late  tragedy  to  be  much  inter 
ested  in  anything  else.  Rousing  his  liveryman,  he 
adjusted  his  difficulties  with  him  by  telling  him 
the  whole  storV  assuring  him  of  his  horse's 
care  and  handing  hhn  a  five-dollar  bill.  Then  he  left, 
to  walk  and  think  agaip. 

Since  there  was  no  train  before  noon  and  his  duty 
plainly  called  him  to  a  portion  of  another  day's  work 
here,  he  decided  to  make  a  day  of  it,  idling  about  and 
getting  additional  details  as  to  what  further  might  be 
done.j  Who  would  cut  the  body  down  ?  What  about 
arresting  the  lynchersV-the  father  and  son,  for  in 
stance  ?  What  about  th\  sheriff  now  ?  Would  he  act 
as  he  threatened?  If  he  telegraphed  the  main  fact  of 
the  lynching  his  city  editorNwould  not  mind,  he  knew, 
his  coming  late,  and  the  da\  here  was  so  beautiful. 
He  proceeded  to  talk  with  citizens  and  officials,  rode 
out  to  the  injured  girl's  home,  rode  to  Baldwin  to  see 
the  sheriff.  There  was  a  singular  ^jlence  and  placidity 
in  that  corner.  The  latter  assured Mjim  that  he  knew 
nearly  all  of  those  who  had  taken  pa\t,  and  proposed 
to  swear  out  warrants  for  them,  butNjust  the  same 
Davies  noted  that  he  took  his  defeat  as  he  did  his 
danger,  philosophically.  There  was  no  real  activity  in 


NIGGER  JEFF  107 

that  corner  later.  He  wished  to  remain  a  popular 
sheriff,  no  doubt. 

It  was  sundown  again  before  he  remembered  that 
he  had  not  discovered  whether  the  body  had  been  re 
moved.  Nor  had  he  heard  why  the  negro  came  back, 
nor  exactly  how  he  was  caught.  A  nine  o'clock  even 
ing  train  to  the  city  giving  him  a  little  more  time  for 
investigation,  he  decided  to  avail  himself  of  it.  The 
negro's  cabin  was  two  miles  out  along  a  pine-shaded 
road,  but  so  pleasant  was  the  evening  that  he  decided 
to  walk.  En  route,  the  last  rays  of  the  sinking  sun 
stretched  long  shadows  of  budding  trees  across  his 
path.  It  was  not  long  before  he  came  upon  the  cabin, 
a  one-story  affair  set  well  back  from  the  road  and  sur 
rounded  with  a  few  scattered  trees.  By  now  it  was 
quite  dark.  The  ground  between  the  cabin  and  the 
road  was  open,  and  strewn  with  the  chips  of  a  wood 
pile.  The  roof  was  sagged,  and  the  windows  patched 
in  places,  but  for  all  that  it  had  the  glow  of  a  home. 
Through  the  front  door,  which  stood  open,  the  blaze 
of  a  wood-fire  might  be  seen,  its  yellow  light  filling 
the  interior  with  a  golden  glow. 

Hesitating  before  the  door,  Davies  finally  knocked. 
Receiving  no  answer  he  looked  in  on  the  battered  cane 
chairs  and  aged  furniture  with  considerable  interest. 
It  was  a  typical  negro  cabin,  poor  beyond  the  need  of 
description.  After  a  time  a  door  in  the  rear  of  the 
room  opened  and  a  little  negro  girl  entered  carrying 
a  battered  tin  lamp  without  any  chimney.  She  had 
not  heard  his  knock  and  started  perceptibly  at  the 
sight  of  his  figure  in  the  doorway.  Then  she  raised 
her  smoking  lamp  above  her  head  in  order  to  see 
better,  and  approached. 


io8  NIGGER  JEFF 

There  was  something  ridiculous  about  her  unformed 
figure  and  loose  gingham  dress,  as  he  noted.  Her 
feet  and  hands  were  so  large.  Her  black  head  was 
strongly  emphasized  by  little  pigtails  of  hair  done  up 
in  white  twirife.  which  stood  out  all  over  her  head. 
Her  dark  skin  ^as  made  apparently  more  so  by  con 
trast  with  her  white  teeth  and  the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

Davies  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  but  little  moved 
now  by  the  oddity  which  ordinarily  would  have  amused 
him,  and  asked,  "Is  this  where  Ingalls  lived?" 

The  girl  nodded  her  head.  She  was  exceedingly 
subdued,  and  looked  as  if  she  might  have  been  crying. 

"Has  the  body  been  brought  here?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  she  answered,  with  a  soft  negro  accent. 

"When  did  they  bring  it  ?" 

"Dis  moanin'." 

"Are  you  his  sister?" 

"Yes,  suh." 

"Well,  can  you  tell  me  how  they  caught  him? 
When  did  he  come  back,  and  what  for?"  He  was 
feeling  slightly  ashamed  to  intrude  thus. 

"In  de  afternoon,  about  two." 

"And  what  for?"  repeated  Davies. 

"To  see  us,"  answered  the  girl.  "To  see  my 
mothaV 

"Well,  did  he  want  anything?  He  didn't  come  just 
to  see  her,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  the  girl,  "he  come  to  say  good-by. 
We  doan  know  when  dey  caught  him."  Her  voice 
wavered. 

"Well,  didn't  he  know  he  might  get  caught?'*  asked 
Davies  sympathetically,  seeing  that  the  girl  was  so 
moved. 


NIGGER  JEFF  109 

''Yes,  suh,  I  think  he  did." 

She  still  stood  very  quietly  holding  the  poor  bat 
tered  lamp  up,  and  looking  down. 

"Well,  what  did  he  have  to  say?"  asked  Davies. 

"He  didn'  have  nothin'  much  to  say,  suh.  He  said 
he  wanted  to  see  motha'.  He  was  a-goin'  away." 

The  girl  seemed  to  regard  Davies  as  an  official  of 
some  sort,  and  he  knew  it. 

"Can  I  have  a  look  at  the  body?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  started  as  if  to  lead 
the  way. 

"When  is  the  funeral?"  he  asked. 

"TomorraV 

The  girl  then  led  him  through  several  bare  sheds 
of  rooms  strung  in  a  row  to  the  furthermost  one  of 
the  line.  Th\s  last  seemed  a  sort  of  storage  shed  for 
odds  and  ends.  It  had  several  windows,  but  they  were 
quite  bare  of  glass  and  open  to  the  moonlight  save 
for  a  few  wooden  boards  nailed  across  from  the  out 
side.  Davies  had  been  wondWing  all  the  while  where 
[the  body  was  and  at  the  londly  and  forsaken  air  of 
I  the  place.  No  one  but  this  little  pig-tailed  girl  seemed 
i  about.  If  they  had  any  colored  neighbors  they  were 
probably  afraid  to  be  seen  here. 

Now,  as  he  stepped  into  this  cool,  dark,  exposed 

outer  room,  the  desolation  seemed  quite  complete.     It 

was  very  bare,  a  mere  shed  or  wash-room.     There 

was  the  body  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  stretched  upon 

;  an  ironing  board  which  rested  on  a  box  and  a  chair, 

'  and  covered  with  a  white  sheet.     All  the  corners  of 

the   room    were   quite   dark.     Only   its   middle   was 

[  brightened  by  splotches  of  silvery  light. 

Davies  came  forward,  the  while  the  girl  left  him, 


no  NIGGER  JEFF 

still  carrying  her  lamp.  Evidently  she  thought  the 
moon  lighted  up  the  room  sufficiently,  and  she  did  not 
feel  equal  to  remaining.  He  lifted  the  sheet  quite 
boldly,  for  he  could  see  well  enough,  and  looked  at 
the  still,  black  form.  The  face  was  extremely  dis 
torted,  even  in  death,  and  he  could  see  where  the  rope 
had  tightened.  A  bar  of  cool  moonlight  lay  just 
across  the  face  and  breast.  He  was  still  looking, 
thinking  soon  to  restore  the  covering,  when  a  sound, 
half  sigh,  half  groan,  reached  his  ears. 

At  it  he  started  as  if  a  ghost  had  made  it.  It  was 
so  eerie  and  unexpected  in  this  dark  place.  His 
muscles  tightened.  Instantly  his  heart  went  hammer 
ing  like  mad.  His  first  impression  was  that  it  must 
have  come  from  the  dead. 

"Oo-o-ohh!"  came  the  sound  again,  this  time 
whimpering,  as  if  some  one  were  crying. 

Instantly  he  turned,  for  now  it  seemed  to  come  from 
a  corner  of  the  room,  the  extreme  corner  to  his  right, 
back  of  him.  Greatly  disturbed,  he  approached,  and 
then  as  his  eyes  strained  he  seemed  to  catch  the  shadow 
of  something,  the  figure  of  a  woman,  perhaps,  crouch 
ing  against  the  walls,  huddled  up,  dark,  almost  indis 
tinguishable. 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  the  sound  now  repeated  itself,  even 
more  plaintively  than  before. 

Davies  began  to  understand.  He  approached 
slowly,  then  more  swiftly  desired  to  withdraw,  for  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  an  old  black  mammy,  doubled 
up  and  weeping.  She  was  in  the  very 
walls,  her  head  sunk  on  her  knees,  h 

oh,  oh!"  she  repeated,  as  he  stood  there 
near  her. 


NIGGER  JEFF  in 

Davies  drew  silently  back.  Before  such  grief  his 
intrusion  seemed  cold  and  unwarranted.  The  guilt 
lessness  of  the  mother — her  love — how  could  one  bal 
ance  that  against  the  other?  The  sensation  of  tears 
came  to  his  eyes.  He  instantly  covered  the  dead  and 
withdrew. 

Out  in  the  moonlight  he  struck  a  brisk  pace,  but 
soon  stopped  and  looked  back.  The  whole  dreary 
cabin,  with  its  one  golden  eye,  the  door,  seemed  such 
a  pitiful  thing.  The  weeping  mammy,  alone  in  her 
corner — and  he  had  come  back  to  say  "Good-by!" 
Davies  swelled  with  feeling.  The  night,  the  tragedy, 
the  grief,  he  saw  it  all.  But  also  with  the  cruel  in 
stinct  of  the  budding  artist  that  he  already  was,  he 
was  beginning  to  meditate  on  the  character  of  story  it 
would  make — the  color,  the  pathos.  The  knowledge 
now  that  it  was  not  always  exact  justice  that  was  meted 
out  to  all  and  that  it  was  not  so  much  the  business  of 
the  writer  to  indict  as  to  interpret  was  borne  in  on 
him  with  distinctness  by  the  cruel  sorrow  of  the  moth 
er,  whose  blame,  if  any,  was  infinitesimal. 

"I'll  get  it  all  in!"  he  exclaimed  feelingly,  if  tri 
umphantly  at  last.  'Til  get  it  all  in!" 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

HpHEY  lived  together  in  a  part  of  the  country 
-*-  which  was  not  so  prosperous  as  it  had  once 
been,  about  three  miles  from  one  of  those  small  towns 
that,  instead  of  increasing  in  population,  is  steadily 
decreasing.  The  territory  was  not  very  thickly  set 
tled;  perhaps  a  house  every  other  mile  or  so,  with! 
large  areas  of  corn-  and  wheat-land  and  fallow  fields 
that  at  odd  seasons  had  been  sown  to  timothy  and  I 
clover.  Their  particular  house  was  part  log  and  part! 
frame,  the  log  portion  being  the  old  original  home  of;l 
Henry's  grandfather.  The  new  portion,  of  now  rain-- 
beaten,  time-worn  slabs,  through  which  the  windl 
squeaked  in  the  chinks  at  times,  and  which  several! 
overshadowing  elms  and  a  butternut-tree  made  pic 
turesque  and  reminiscently  pathetic,  but  a  little  damp, 
was  erected  by  Henry  when  he  was  twenty-one  and! 
just  married. 

That  was  forty-eight  years  before.  The  furniture 
inside,  like  the  house  outside,  was  old  and  mildewy* 
and  reminiscent  of  an  earlier  day.  You  have  seen1 
the  what-not  of  cherry  wood,  perhaps,  with  spiral  legsv 
and  fluted  top.  It  was  there.  The  old-fashioned 
four  poster  bed,  with  its  ball-like  protuberances  and5 
deep  curving  incisions,  was  there  also,  a  sadly  alien 
ated  descendant  of  an  early  Jacobean  ancestor.  The 
bureau  of  cherry  was  also  high  and  wide  and  solidly ^ 
built,  but  faded-looking,  and  with  a  musty  odor.  The< 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  113 

ag  carpet  that  underlay  all  these  sturdy  examples  of 
nduring  furniture  was  a  weak,  faded,  lead-and-pink- 
olored  affair  woven  by  Phoebe  Ann's  own  hands,  when 
he  was  fifteen  years  younger  than  she  was  when  she 
ied.  The  creaky  wooden  loom  on  which  it  had  been 
one  now  stood  like  a  dusty,  bony  skeleton,  along 
ith  a  broken  rocking-chair,  a  worm-eaten  clothes- 
ress — Heaven  knows  how  old — a  lime-stained  bench 
lat  had  once  been  used  to  keep  flowers  on  outside  the 
oor,  and  other  decrepit  factors  of  household  utility, 

an  east  room  that  was  a  lean-to  against  this  so- 
ailed  main  portion.  All  sorts  of  other  broken-down 
urniture  were  about  this  place ;  an  antiquated  clothes- 
orse,  cracked  in  two  of  its  ribs ;  a  broken  mirror  in  an 
Id  cherry  frame,  which  had  fallen  from  a  nail  and 
racked  itself  three  days  before  their  youngest  son, 
erry,  died ;  an  extension  hat-rack,  which  once  had  had 
orcelain  knobs  on  the  ends  of  its  pegs ;  and  a  sewing- 

achine,  long  since  outdone  in  its  clumsy  mechanism 
y  rivals  of  a  newer  generation. 

The  orchard  to  the  east  of  the  house  was  full  of 

arled  old  apple-trees,  worm-eaten  as  to  trunks  and 
ranches,  and  fully  ornamented  with  green  and  white 
chens,  so  that  it  had  a  sad,  greenish- white,  silvery 
ffect  in  moonlight.  The  low  outhouses,  which  had 
nce  housed  chickens,  a  horse  or  two,  a  cow,  and  sev- 
ral  pigs,  were  covered  with  patches  of  moss  as  to 
heir  roof,  and  the  sides  had  been  free  of  paint  for 
o  long  that  they  were  blackish  gray  as  to  color,  and 

little  spongy.  The  picket-fence  in  front,  with  its 
squeaky  and  askew,  and  the  side  fences  of  the 
take-and-rider  type  were  in  an  equally  run-down  con 
ition.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  aged  synchron- 


114  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

ously  with  the  persons  who  lived  here,  old  Henry 
Reifsneider  and  his  wife  Phoebe  Ann. 

They  had  lived  here,  these  two,  ever  since  their 
marriage,  forty-eight  years  before,  and  Henry  had 
lived  here  before  that  from  his  childhood  up.  His 
father  and  mother,  well  along  in  years  when  he  was 
a  boy,  had  invited  him  to  bring  his  wife  here  when 
he  had  first  fallen  in  love  and  decided  to  marry;  and 
he  had  done  so.  His  father  and  mother  were  the 
companions  of  himself  and  his  wife  for  ten  years  after 
they  were  married,  when  both  died;  and  then  Henry 
and  Phcebe  were  left  with  their  five  children  growing 
lustily  apace.  But  all  sorts  of  things  had  happened 
since  then.  Of  the  seven  children,  all  told,  that  had* 
been  bora  to  them,  three  had  died;  one  girl  had  gone 
to  Kansas;  one  boy  had  gone  to  Sioux  Falls,  never 
even  to  be  heard  of  after;  another  boy  had  gone  to 
Washington ;  and  the  last  girl  lived  five  counties  away 
in  the  same  State,  but  was  so  burdened  with  cares  of 
her  own  that  she  rarely  gave  them  a  thought.  Time 
and  a  commonplace  home  life  that  had  never  been  at 
tractive  had  weaned  them  thoroughly,  so  that,  wher 
ever  they  were,  they  gave  little  thought  as  to  how  it 
might  be  with  their  father  and  mother. 

Old  Henry  Reifsneider  and  his  wife  Phcebe  were 
a  loving  couple.  You  perhaps  know  how  it  is  with 
simple  natures  that  fasten  themselves  like  lichens  on 
the  stones  of  circumstance  and  weather  their  days  to 
a  crumbling  conclusion.  The  great  world  sounds 
widely,  but  it  has  no  call  for  them.  They  have  no 
soaring  intellect.  The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  corn 
field,  the  pig-pen,  and  the  chicken-lot  measure  the 
range  of  their  human  activities.  When  the  wheat  is 

I 


THE  LOST  PHOEBE  115 

headed  it  is  reaped  and  threshed;  when  the  corn  is 
browned  and  frosted  it  is  cut  and  shocked;  when  the 
timothy  is  in  full  head  it  is  cut,  and  the  hay-cock 
erected.  After  that  comes  winter,  with  the  hauling 
of  grain  to  market,  the  sawing  and  splitting  of  wood, 
the  simple  chores  of  fire-building,  meal-getting,  occa 
sional  repairing,  and  visiting.  Beyond  these  and  the 
changes  of  weather — the  snows,  the  rains,  and  the  fair 
days — theie  are  no  immediate,  significant  things.  All 
the  rest  of  life  is  a  far-off,  clamorous  phantasmagoria, 
flickering  like  Northern  lights  in  the  night,  and  sound 
ing  as  faintly  as  cow-bells  tinkling  in  the  distance. 

Old  Henry  and  his  wife  Phoebe  were  as  fond  of 
each  other  as  it  is  possible  for  two  old  people  to  be  who 
have  nothing  else  in  this  life  to  be  fond  of.  He  was 
a  thin  old  man,  seventy  when  she  died,  a  queer, 
crotchety  person  with  coarse  gray-black  hair  and 
beard,  quite  straggly  and  unkempt.  He  looked  at  you 
out  of  dull,  fishy,  watery  eyes  that  had  deep-brown 
crow's-feet  at  the  sides.  His  clothes,  like  the  clothes 
of  man/  farmers,  were  aged  and  angular  and  baggy, 
standing  out  at  the  pockets,  not  fitting  about  the  neck, 
protuberant  and  worn  at  elbow  and  knee.  Phoebe 
Ann  was  thin  and  shapeless,  a  very  umbrella  of  a 
woman,  clad  in  shabby  black,  and  with  a  black  bonnet 
for  her  best  wear.  As  time  had  passed,  and  they  had 
only  themselves  to  look  after,  their  movements  had 
become  slower  and  slower,  their  activities  fewer  and 
fewer.  The  annual  keep  of  pigs  had  been  reduced 
from  five  to  one  grunting  porker,  and  the  single  horse 
which  Henry  now  retained  was  a  sleepy  animal,  not 
over-nourished  and  not  very  clean.  The  chickens, 
of  which  formerly  there  was  a  large  flock,  had  almost 


n6  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 


disappeared,  owing  to  ferrets,  foxes,  and  the  lack  of 
proper  care,  which  produces  disease.  The  former 
healthy  garden  was  now  a  straggling  memory  of  it 
self,  and  the  vines  and  flower-beds  that  formerly  or 
namented  the  windows  and  dooryard  had  now  become 
choking  thickets.  A  will  had  been  made  which  divided 
the  small  tax-eaten  property  equally  among  the  re 
maining  four,  so  that  it  was  really  of  no  interest  to 
any  of  them.  Yet  these  two  lived  together  in 
peace  and  sympathy,  only  that  now  and  then  old  Henry 
would  become  unduly  cranky,  complaining  almost  in 
variably  that  something  had  been  neglected  or  mis 
laid  which  was  of  no  importance  at  all. 

"Phoebe,  where's  my  corn-knife?     You  ain't  never 
minded  to  let  my  things  alone  no  more." 

"Now  you  hush,  Henry,"  his  wife  would  caution 
him  in  a  cracked  and  squeaky  voice.     "If  you  don't, 
I'll  leave  yuh.     I'll  git  up  and  walk  out  of  here  some 
day,  and  then  where  would  y'  be?    Y'  ain't  got  any 
body  but  me  to  look  after  yuh,  so  yuh  just  behave: 
yourself.     Your  corn  knife's  on  the  mantel  where  it'si 
allus  been  unless  you've  gone  an'  put  it  summers  else." 

Old  Henry,  who  knew  his  wife  would  never  leave! 
him  in  any  circumstances,  used  to  speculate  at  times 
as  to  what  he  would  do  if  she  were  to  die.  That  waSjj 
the  one  leaving  that  he  really  feared.  As  he  climbed 
on  the  chair  at  night  to  wind  the  old,  long-pendu- 
lumed,  double-weighted  clock,  or  went  finally  to  the< 
front  and  the  back  door  to  see  that  they  were  safely* 
shut  in,  it  was  a  comfort  to  know  that  Phcebe  wa&i 
there,  properly  ensconced  on  her  side  of  the  bed,  an$ 
that  if  he  stirred  restlessly  in  the  night,  she  would  bet 
there  to  ask  what  he  wanted. 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  117 

"Now,  Henry,  do  lie  still!  You're  as  restless  as  a 
:hicken." 

"Well,  I  can't  sleep,  Phoebe." 

"Well,  yuh  needn't  roll  so,  anyhow.  Yuh  kin  let 
ne  sleep." 

This  usually  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  somnolent 
:ase.  If  she  wanted  a  pail  of  water,  it  was  a  grum- 
>ling  pleasure  for  him  to  get  it;  and  if  she  did  rise 
irst  to  build  the  fires,  he  saw  that  the  wood  was  cut 
ind  placed  within  easy  reach.  They  divided  this  sim- 
>le  world  nicely  between  them. 

As  the  years  had  gone  on,  however,  fewer  and  fewer 
icople  had  called.  They  were  well-known  for  a  dis- 
ance  of  as  much  as  ten  square  miles  as  old  Mr.  and 
tfrs.  Reifsneider,  honest,  moderately  Christian,  but 
oo  old  to  be  really  interesting  any  longer.  The  writ- 
tig  of  letters  had  become  an  almost  impossible  burden 

00  difficult  to  continue  or  even  negotiate  via  others, 
ilthough  an  occasional  letter  still  did  arrive  from  the 
laughter  in  Pemberton  County.     Now  and  then  some 
>ld  friend  stopped  with  a  pie  or  cake  or  a  roasted 
:hicken  or  duck,  or  merely  to  see  that  they  were  well ; 
Kit  even  these  kindly  minded  visits  were  no  longer  fre- 
[uent. 

1  One  day  in  the  early  spring  of  her  sixty-fourth 
rear  Mrs.  Reifsneider  took  sick,  and  from  a  low  fever 
Massed  into  some  indefinable  ailment  which,  because  of 
ler  age,  was  no  longer  curable.     Old  Henry  drove  to 
swinnerton,   the  neighboring  town,   and  procured  a 
Joctor.     Some  friends  called,  and  the  immediate  care 
)f  her  was  taken  off  his  hands.    Then  one  chill  spring 
light  she  died,  and  old  Henry,  in  a  fog  of  sorrow 
md  uncertainty,    followed   her  body  to  the  nearest 


ii8  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

graveyard,  an  unattractive  space  with  a  few  pines 
growing  in  it.  Although  he  might  have  gone  to  the 
daughter  in  Pemberton  or  sent  for  her,  it  was  really 
too  much  trouble  and  he  was  too  weary  and  fixed. 
It  was  suggested  to  him  at  once  by  one  friend  and 
another  that  he  come  to  stay  with  them  awhile,  but  he 
did  not  see  fit.  He  was  so  old  and  so  fixed  in  his 
notions  and  so  accustomed  to  the  exact  surroundings 
he  had  known  all  his  days,  that  he  could  not  think  of 
leaving.  He  wanted  to  remain  near  where  they  had 
put  his  Phcebe;  and  the  fact  that  he  would  have  to  live 
alone  did  not  trouble  him  in  the  least.  The  living 
children  were  notified  and  the  care  of  him  offered  if 
he  would  leave,  but  he  would  not. 

"I  kin  make  a  shift  for  myself,"  he  continually  an 
nounced  to  old  Dr.  Morrow,  who  had  attended  his 
wife  in  this  case.  "I  kin  cook  a  little,  and,  besides, 
it  don't  take  much  more'n  coffee  an'  bread  in  the  morn- 
in's  to  satisfy  me.  I'll  get  along  now  well  enough. 
Yuh  just  let  me  be."  And  after  many  pleadings  and 
proffers  of  advice,  with  supplies  of  coffee  and  bacon 
and  baked  bread  duly  offered  and  accepted,  he  was  left 
to  himself.  For  a  while  he  sat  idly  outside  his  door 
brooding  in  the  spring  sun.  He  tried  to  revive  his 
interest  in  farming,  and  to  keep  himself  busy  and  free 
from  thought  by  looking  after  the  fields,  which  of  late 
had  been  much  neglected.  It  was  a  gloomy  thing  to 
come  in  of  an  evening,  however,  or  in  the  afternoon 
and  find  no  shadow  of  Phoebe  where  everything  sug 
gested  her.  By  degrees  he  put  a  few  of  her  things 
away.  At  night  he  sat  beside  his  lamp  and  read  in 
the  papers  that  were  left  him  occasionally  or  in  a  Bible 
that  he  had  neglected  for  years,  but  he  could  get  little 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  119 

solace  from  these  things.  Mostly  he  held  his  hand 
over  his  mouth  and  looked  at  the  floor  as  he  sat  and 
thought  of  what  had  become  of  her,  and  how  soon 
he  himself  would  die.  He  made  a  great  business  of 
making  his  coffee  in  the  morning  and  frying  himself 
a  little  bacon  at  night;  but  his  appetite  was  gone. 
The  shell  in  which  he  had  been  housed  so  long  seemed 
vacant,  and  its  shadows  were  suggestive  of  immed 
icable  griefs.  So  he  lived  quite  dolefully  for  five 
long  months,  and  then  a  change  began. 

It  was  one  night,  after  he  had  looked  after  the 
front  and  the  back  door,  wound  the  clock,  blown 
out  the  light,  and  gone  through  all  the  selfsame 
motions  that  he  had  indulged  in  for  years,  that  he 
went  to  bed  not  so  much  to  sleep  as  to  think.  It  was 
a  moonlight  night.  The  green-lichen-covered  orchard 
just  outside  and  to  be  seen  from  his  bed  where  he  now 
lay  was  a  silvery  affair,  sweetly  spectral.  The  moon 
shone  through  the  east  windows,  throwing  the  pat 
tern  of  the  panes  on  the  wooden  floor,  and  making 
the  old  furniture,  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  stand 
out  dimly  in  the  room.  &As  usual  he  had  been  thinking 
of  Phcebe  and  the  years  when  they  had  been  young 
together,  and  of  the  children  who  had  gone,  and  the 
poor  shift  he  was  making  of  his  present  days.  The 
house  was  coming  to  be  in  a  very  bad  state  indeed. 
The  bed-clothes  were  in  disorder  and  not  clean,  for  he 
made  a  wretched  shift  of  washing.  It  was  a  terror 
to  him.  The  roof  leaked,  causing  things,  some  of 
them,  to  remain  damp  for  weeks  at  a  time,  but  he  was 
getting  into  that  brooding  state  where  he  would  ac 
cept  anything  rather  than  exert  himself.  He  pre 
ferred  to  pace  slowly  to  and  fro  or  to  sit  and  think. 


120  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

By  twelve  o'clock  of  this  particular  night  he  was 
asleep,  however,  and  by  two  had  waked  again.  The 
moon  by  this  time  had  shifted  to  a  position  on  the 
western  side  of  the  house,  and  it  now  shone  in  through 
the  windows  of  the  living-room  and  those  of  the 
kitchen  beyond.  A  certain  combination  of  furniture 
— a  chair  near  a  table,  with  his  coat  on  it,  the  half- 
open  kitchen  door  casting  a  shadow,  and  the  position 
of  a  lamp  near  a  paper — gave  him  an  exact  represen 
tation  of  Phcebe  leaning  over  the  table  as  he  had  often 
seen  her  do  in  life.  It  gave  him  a  great  start.  Could 
it  be  she — or  her  ghost?  He  had  scarcely  ever  be 
lieved  in  spirits ;  and  still He  looked  at  her  fixed 
ly  in  the  feeble  half-light,  his  old  hair  tingling  oddly 
at  the  roots,  and  then  sat  up.  The  figure  did  not 
move.  He  put  his  thin  legs  out  of  the  bed  and  sat 
looking  at  her,  wondering  if  this  could  really  be 
Phoebe.  They  had  talked  of  ghosts  often  in  their 
lifetime,  of  apparitions  and  omens;  but  they  had 
never  agreed  that  such  things  could  be.  It  had  never 
been  a  part  of  his  wife's  creed  that  she  could  have 
a  spirit  that  could  return  to  walk  the  earth.  Her 
after-world  was  quite  a  different  affair,  a  vague 
heaven,  no  less,  from  which  the  righteous  did  not 
trouble  to  return.  Yet  here  she  was  now,  bending  over 
the  table  in  her  black  skirt  and  gray  shawl,  her  pale 
profile  outlined  against  the  moonlight. 

"Phoebe,"  he  called,  thrilling  from  head  to  toe  and 
putting  out  one  bony  hand,  "have  yuh  come  back?" 

The  figure  did  not  stir,  and  he  arose  and  walked  un 
certainly  to  the  door,  looking  at  it  fixedly  the  while. 
As  he  drew  near,  however,  the  apparition  resolved  it 
self  into  its  primal  content — his  old  coat  over  the  high- 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  121 

backed  chair,  the  lamp  by  the  paper,  the  half-open 
door. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  his  mouth  open,  "I 
thought  shore  I  saw  her."  And  he  ran  his  hand 
strangely  and  vaguely  through  his  hair,  the  while  his 
nervous  tension  relaxed.  Vanished  as  it  had,  it  gave 
him  the  idea  that  she  might  return. 

Another  night,  because  of  this  first  illusion,  and  be 
cause  his  mind  was  now  constantly  on  her  and  he  was 
old,  he  looked  out  of  the  window  that  was  nearest  his 
bed  and  commanded  a  hen-coop  and  pig-pen  and  a  part 
of  the  wagon-shed,  and  there,  a  faint  mist  exuding 
from  the  damp  of  the  ground,  he  thought  he  saw  her 
again.     It  was  one  of  those  little  wisps  of  mist,  one  of 
i  those  faint  exhalations  of  the  earth  that  rise  in  a  cool 
|  night  after  a  warm  day,  and  flicker  like  small  white 
cypresses  of  fog  before  they  disappear.     In  life  it  had 
;  been  a  custom  of  hers  to  cross  this  lot  from  her  kitchen 
j  door  to  the  pig-pen  to  throw  in  any  scrap  that  was  left 
i  from  her  cooking,  and  here  she  was  again.     He  sat  up 
i  and  watched  it  strangely,  doubtfully,  because  of  his 
i  previous  experience,  but  inclined,  because  of  the  nerv- 
i  ous  titillation  that  passed  over  his  body,  to  believe  that 
i  spirits  really  were,  and  that  Phoebe,  who  would  be  con 
cerned  because  of  his  lonely  state,  must  be  thinking 
about  him,   and  hence   returning.     What  other  way 
would    she    have?     How    otherwise    could    she    ex 
press    herself?     It    would    be    within    the    province 
of  her  charity  so  to  do,  and  like  her  loving  interest  in 
him.    He  quivered  and  watched  it  eagerly ;  but,  a  faint 
breath  of  air  stirring,  it  wound  away  toward  the  fence 
and  disappeared. 

A  third  night,  as  he  was  actually  dreaming,  some 


122  THE  LOST  PHGEBE 

ten  days  later,  she  came  to  his  bedside  and  put  her 
hand  on  his  head. 

"Poor  Henry !"  she  said.  "It's  too  bad." 
He  roused  out  of  his  sleep,  actually  to  see  her,  he 
thought,  moving  from  his  bed-room  into  the  one  liv 
ing-room,  her  figure  a  shadowy  mass  of  black.  The 
weak  straining  of  his  eyes  caused  little  points  of  light 
to  flicker  about  the  outlines  of  her  form.  He  arose, 
greatly  astonished,  walked  the  floor  in  the  cool  room, 
convinced  that  Phcebe  was  coming  back  to  him.  If  he 
only  thought  sufficiently,  if  he  made  it  perfectly  clear 
by  his  feeling  that  he  needed  her  greatly,  she  would 
come  back,  this  kindly  wife,  and  tell  him  what  to  do. 
She  would  perhaps  be  with  him  much  of  the  time,  in 
the  night,  anyhow;  and  that  would  make  him  less 
lonely,  this  state  more  endurable. 

In  age  and  with  the  feeble  it  is  not  such  a  far  cry 
from  the  subtleties  of  illusion  to  actual  hallucination, 
and  in  due  time  this  transition  was  made  for  Henry. 
Night  after  night  he  waited,  expecting  her  return. 
Once  in  his  weird  mood  he  thought  he  saw  a  pale  light 
moving  about  the  room,  and  another  time  he  thought 
he  saw  her  walking  in  the  orchard  after  dark.  It  was 
one  morning  when  the  details  of  his  lonely  state  were 
virtually  unendurable  that  he  woke  with  the  thought 
that  she  was  not  dead.  How  he  had  arrived  at  this 
conclusion  it  is  hard  to  say.  His  mind  had  gone.  In 
its  place  was  a  fixed  illusion.  He  and  Phoebe  had  had 
a  sensed"  re!.  He  had  reproached  her  for  not 
leavii  ^here  he  was  accustomed  to  find  it, 

and  she  z ft.     It  was  an  aberrated  fulfillment  of 

her  old  i      ing  threat  that  if  he  did  not  behave  him 
self  she,  would  leave  him. 


THE  LOST  PHOEBE  123 

"I  guess  I  could  find  yuh  ag'in,"  he  had  always  said. 
But  her  cackling  threat  had  always  been : 

"Yuh'll  not  find  me  if  I  ever  leave  yuh.  I  guess  I 
kin  git  some  place  where  yuh  can't  find  me." 

This  morning  when  he  arose  he  did  not  think  to 
build  the  fire  in  the  customary  way  or  to  grind  his 
coffee  and  cut  his  bread,  as  was  his  wont,  but  solely 
to  meditate  as  to  where  he  should  search  for  her  and 
how  he  should  induce  her  to  come  back.  ^Recently  the 
one  horse  had  been  dispensed  with  because  he  found  it 
cumbersome  and  beyond  his  needs.  t-'He  took  down 
his  soft  crush  hat  after  he  had  dressed  himself,  a  new 
glint  of  interest  and  determination  in  his  eye,  and  tak 
ing  his  black  crook  cane  from  behind  the  door,  where 
he  had  always  placed  it,  started  cut  briskly  to  look  for 
her  among  the  nearest  neighbors.  His  old  shoes 
clumped  soundly  in  the  dust  as  he  walked,  and  his 
gray-black  locks,  now  grown  rather  long,  straggled 
out  in  a  dramatic  fringe  or  halo  from  under  his  hat. 
His  short  coat  stirred  busily  as  he  walked,  and  his 
hands  and  face  were  peaked  and  pale. 

"Why,  hello,  Henry!  Where're  yuh  goin*  this 
mornin'?"  inquired  Farmer  Dodge,  who,  hauling  a 
load  of  wheat  to  market,  encountered  him  on  the  pub 
lic  road.  He  had  not  seen  the  aged  farmer  in  months, 
not  since  his  wife's  death,  and  he  wondered  now,  see 
ing  him  looking  so  spry. 

"Yuh  ain't  seen  Phcebe,  have  yuh?"  inquired  the  old 
man,  looking  up  quizzically. 

"Phcebe  who?"  inquired  Farmer  Dodge,  not  for  the 
moment  connecting  the  name  with  Henry's  dead  wife. 

"Why,  my  wife  Phoebe,  o'  course.  Who  do  yuh 
s'pose  I  mean?"  He  stared  up  with  a  pathetic  sharp- 


124  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

ness  of  glance  from  under  his  shaggy,  gray  eyebrows. 

"Wall,  I'll  swan,  Henry,  yuh  ain't  jokin',  are  yuh?" 
said  the  solid  Dodge,  a  pursy  man,  with  a  smooth, 
hard,  red  face.  "It  can't  be  your  wife  yuh're  talkin' 
about  She's  dead." 

"Dead!  Shucks!"  retorted  the  demented  Reif- 
sneider.  "She  left  me  early  this  mornin',  while  I  was 
sleepin'.  She  allus  got  up  to  build  the  fire,  but  she's 
gone  now.  We  had  a  little  spat  last  night,  an'  I  guess 
that's  the  reason.  But  I  guess  I  kin  find  her.  She's 
gone  over  to  Matilda  Race's ;  that's  where  she's  gone." 

He  started  briskly  up  the  road,  leaving  the  amazed 
Dodge  to  stare  in  wonder  after  him. 

"Well,  I'll  be  switched!"  he  said  aloud  to  himself. 
"He's  clean  out'n  his  head.  That  poor  old  feller's 
been  livin'  down  there  till  he's  gone  outen  his  mind. 
I'll  have  to  notify  the  authorities."  And  he  flicked 
his  whip  with  great  enthusiasm.  "Geddap!"  he  said, 
and  was  off. 

Reifsneider  met  no  one  else  in  this  poorly  populated 
region  until  he  reached  the  whitewashed  fence  of 
Matilda  Race  and  her  husband  three  miles  away.  He 
had  passed  several  other  houses  en  route,  but  these 
not  being  within  the  range  of  his  illusion  were  not 
considered.  His  wife,  who  had  known  Matilda  well, 
must  be  here.  He  opened  the  picket-gate  which 
guarded  the  walk,  and  stamped  briskly  up  to  the 
door. 

"Why,  Mr.  Reifsneider,"  exclaimed  old  Matilda 
herself,  a  stout  woman,  looking  out  of  the  door  in 
answer  to  his  knock,  "what  brings  yuh  here  this 
mornin'  ?" 

"Is  Phoebe  here  ?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 


THE  LOST  PHGEBE  125 

"Phoebe  who?  What  Phoebe?"  replied  Mrs.  Race, 
curious  as  to  this  sudden  development  of  energy  on  his 
part. 

"Why,  my  Phoebe,  o'  course.  My  wife  Phoebe. 
Who  do  yuh  s'pose  ?  Ain't  she  here  now  ?" 

"Lawsy  me!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Race,  opening  her 
mouth.  "Yuh  pore  man !  So  you're  clean  out'n  your 
mind  now.  Yuh  come  right  in  and  sit  down.  I'll 
git  yuh  a  cup  o'  coffee.  O'  course  your  wife  ain't 
here;  but  yuh  come  in  an'  sit  down.  I'll  find  her  fer 
yuh  after  a  while.  I  know  where  she  is." 

The  old  farmer's  eyes  softened,  and  he  entered.  He 
was  so  thin  and  pale  a  specimen,  pantalooned  and 
patriarchal,  that  he  aroused  Mrs.  Race's  extremest 
sympathy  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  laid  it  on  his 
knees  quite  softly  and  mildly. 

"We  had  a  quarrel  last  night,  an'  she  left  me,"  he 
volunteered. 

"Laws !  laws !"  sighed  Mrs.  Race,  there  being  no  one 
present  with  whom  to  share  her  astonishment  as  she 
went  to  her  kitchen.  "The  pore  man !  Now  somebody's 
just  got  to  look  after  him.  He  can't  be  allowed  to  run 
around  the  country  this  way  lookin'  for  his  dead  wife. 
It's  tumble." 

She  boiled  him  a  pot  of  coffee  and  brought  in  some 
of  her  new-baked  bread  and  fresh  butter.  She  set  out 
some  of  her  best  jam  and  put  a  couple  of  eggs  to  boil, 
lying  whole-heartedly  the  while. 

"Now  yuh  stay  right  there,  Uncle  Henry,  till  Jake 
comes  in,  an'  I'll  send  him  to  look  for  Phoebe.  I  think 
it's  more'n  likely  she's  over  to  Swinnerton  with  some 
o'  her  friends.  Anyhow,  we'll  find  out.  Now  yuh 
just  drink  this  coffee  an'  eat  this  bread.  Yuh  must  be 


126  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

tired.  Yuh've  had  a  long  walk  this  morninV  Her 
idea  was  to  take  counsel  with  Jake,  "her  man,"  and 
perhaps  have  him  notify  the  authorities. 

She  bustled  about,  meditating  on  the  uncertainties  of 
life,  while  old  Reifsneider  thrummed  on  the  rim  of  his 
hat  with  his  pale  fingers  and  later  ate  abstractedly  of 
what  she  offered.  His  mind  was  on  his  wife,  how 
ever,  and  since  she  was  not  here,  or  did  not  appear,  it 
wandered  vaguely  away  to  a  family  by  the  name  of 
Murray,  miles  away  in  another  direction.  He  decided 
after  a  time  that  he  would  not  wait  for  Jake  Race  to 
hunt  his  wife  but  would  seek  her  for  himself.  He 
must  be  on,  and  urge  her  to  come  back. 

"Well,  I'll  be  goin',"  he  said,  getting  up  and  looking 
strangely  about  him.  "I  guess  she  didn't  come  here 
after  all.  She  went  over  to  the  Murrays',  I  guess. 
Pll  not  wait  any  longer,  Mis'  Race.  There's  a  lot 
to  do  over  to  the  house  to-day."  And  out  he  marched 
in  the  face  of  her  protests  taking  to  the  dusty  road 
again  in  the  warm  spring  sun,  his  cane  striking  the 
earth  as  he  went.  / 

It  was  two  hours  later  that  this  pale  figure  of  a  man 
appeared  in  the  Murrays'  doorway,  dusty,  perspiring, 
eager.  He  had  tramped  all  of  five  miles,  and  it  was 
noon.  An  amazed  husband  and  wife  of  sixty  heard  his 
strange  query,  and  realized  also  that  he  was  mad. 
They  begged  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  intending  to  notify 
the  authorities  later  and  see  what  could  be  done;  but 
though  he  stayed  to  partake  of  a  little  something,  he 
did  not  stay  long,  and  was  off  again  to  another  dis 
tant  farmhouse,  his  idea  of  many  things  to  do  and  his 
need  of  Phcebe  impelling  him.  So  it  went  for  that 


THE  LOST  PHGEBE  127 

day  and  the  next  and  the  next,  the  circle  of  his  inquiry 
ever  widening. 

The  process  by  which  a  character  assumes  the  sig 
nificance  of  being  peculiar,  his  antics  weird,  yet  harm 
less,  in  such  a  community  is  often  involute  and  pathet 
ic.  This  day,  as  has  been  said,  saw  Reifsneider  at 
other  doors,  eagerly  asking  his  unnatural  question, 
and  leaving  a  trail  of  amazement,  sympathy,  and 
pity  in  his  wake.  Although  the  authorities  were 
informed — the  county  sheriff,  no  less — it  was  not 
deemed  advisable  to  take  him  into  custody;  for  when 
those  who  knew  old  Henry,  and  had  for  so  long,  re 
flected  on  the  condition  of  the  county  insane  asylum, 
a  place  which,  because  of  the  poverty  of  the  district, 
was  of  staggering  aberration  and  sickening  en 
vironment,  it  was  decided  to  let  him  remain  at  large; 
for,  strange  to  relate,  it  was  found  on  investigation 
that  at  night  he  returned  peaceably  enough  to  his  lone 
some  domicile  there  to  discover  whether  his  wife  had 
returned,  and  to  brood  in  loneliness  until  the  morning. 
Who  would  lock  up  a  thin,  eager,  seeking  old  man 
with  iron-gray  hair  and  an  attitude  of  kindly,  in 
nocent  inquiry,  particularly  when  he  was  well  known 
for  a  past  of  only  kindly  servitude  and  reliability? 
Those  who  had  known  him  best  rather  agreed  that 
he  should  be  allowed  to  roam  at  large.  He  could 
do  no  harm.  There  were  many  who  were  willing 
to  help  him  as  to  food,  old  clothes,  the  odds  and  ends 
of  his  daily  life — at  least  at  first.  His  figure  after 
a  time  became  not  so  much  a  common-place  as  an 
accepted  curiosity,  and  the  replies,  "Why,  no,  Henry; 
I  ain't  see  her,"  or  "No,  Henry;  she  ain't  been  here 
to-day,"  more  customary. 


128  THE  LOST  PHOEBE 

For  several  years  thereafter  then  he  was  an  odd 
figure  in  the  sun  and  rain,  on  dusty  roads  and  muddy 
ones,  encountered  occasionally  in  strange  and  unex 
pected  places,  pursuing  his  endless  search.  Under 
nourishment,  after  a  time,  although  the  neighbors 
and  those  who  knew  his  history  gladly  contributed 
from  their  store,  affected  his  body;  for  he  walked 
much  and  ate  little.  The  longer  he  roamed  the 
public  highway  in  this  manner,  the  deeper  became  his 
strange  hallucination ;  and  finding  it  harder  and  harder 
to  return  from  his  more  and  more  distant  pilgrimages, 
he  finally  began  taking  a  few  utensils  with  him 
from  his  home,  making  a  small  package  of  them, 
in  order  that  he  might  not  be  compelled  to  return. 
In  an  old  tin  coffee-pot  of  large  size  he  placed  a  small 
tin  cup,  a  knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  some  salt  and  pepper, 
and  to  the  outside  of  it,  by  a  string  forced  through  a 
pierced  hole,  he  fastened  a  plate,  which  could  be  re 
leased,  and  which  was  his  woodland  table.  It  was  no 
trouble  for  him  to  secure  the  little  food  that  he  needed, 
and  with  a  strange,  almost  religious  dignity,  he  had  no 
hesitation  in  asking  for  that  much.  By  degrees  his 
hair  became  longer  and  longer,  his  once  black  hat  be 
came  an  earthen  brown,  and  his  clothes  threadbare 
and  dusty. 

tj  For  all  of  three  years  he  walked,  and  none  knew  how 
wide  were  his  perambulations,  nor  how  he  survived 
the  storms  and  cold.  They  could  not  see  him,  with 
homely  rural  understanding  and  forethought,  shelter 
ing  himself  in  hay-cocks,  or  by  the  sides  of  cattle, 
whose  warm  bodies  protected  him  from  the  cold,  and 
whose  dull  understandings  were  not  opposed  to  his 
harmless  presence.  Overhanging  rocks  and  trees  kept 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  129 

him  at  times  from  the  rain,  and  a  friendly  hay-loft  or 
corn-crib  was  not  above  his  humble  consideration. 

The  involute  progression  of  hallucination  is  strange. 
From  asking  at  doors  and  being  constantly  rebuffed  or 
denied,  he  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  although 
his  Phoebe  might  not  be  in  any  of  the  houses  at  the 
doors  of  which  he  inquired,  she  might  nevertheless  be 
within  the  sound  of  his  voice.  And  so,  from  patient 
inquiry,  he  began  to  call  sad,  occasional  cries,  that  ever 
and  anon  waked  the  quiet  landscapes  and  ragged  hill 
regions,  and  set  to  echoing  his  thin  "O-o-o  Phoebe! 
O-o-o  Phoebe!"  It  had  a  pathetic,  albeit  insane,  ring, 
and  many  a  farmer  or  plowboy  came  to  know  it  even 
from  afar  and  say,  "There  goes  old  Reifsneider." 

Another  thing  that  puzzled  him  greatly  after  a  time 
and  after  many  hundreds  of  inquiries  was,  when  he 
no  longer  had  any  particular  dooryard  in  view  and 
no  special  inquiry  to  make,  which  way  to  go.  These 
cross-roads,  which  occasionally  led  in  four  or  even 
six  directions,  came  after  a  time  to  puzzle  him.  But 
to  solve  this  knotty  problem,  which  became  more  and 
more  of  a  puzzle,  there  came  to  his  aid  another  hal 
lucination.  Phoebe's  spirit  or  some  power  of  the  air 
or  wind  or  nature  would  tell  him.  If  he  stood  at  the 
center  of  the  parting  of  the  ways,  closed  his  eyes, 
turned  thrice  about,  and  called  "O-o-o  Phoebe !"  twice, 
and  then  threw  .his  cane  straight  before  him,  that 
would  surely  indicate  which  way  to  go  for  Phoebe,  or 
one  of  these  mystic  powers  would  surely  govern  its 
direction  and  fall!  In  whichever  direction  it  went, 
even  though,  as  was  not  infrequently  the  case,  it  took 
him  back  along  the  path  he  had  already  come,  or  across 
fields,  he  was  not  so  far  gone  in  his  mind  but  that  he 


130  THE  LOST  PHOEBE 

gave  himself  ample  time  to  search  before  he  called 
again.  Also  the  hallucination  seemed  to  persist 
that  at  some  time  he  would  surely  find  her.  There 
were  hours  when  his  feet  were  sore,  and  his  limbs 
weary,  when  he  would  stop  in  the  heat  to  wipe  his 
seamed  brow,  or  in  the  cold  to  beat  his  arms.  Some 
times,  after  throwing  away  his  cane,  and  finding  it  in 
dicating  the  direction  from  which  he  had  just  come,  he 
would  shake  his  head  wearily  and  philosophically,  as 
if  contemplating  the  unbelievable  or  an  untoward  fate, 
and  then  start  briskly  off.  His  strange  figure  came 
finally  to  be  known  in  the  farthest  reaches  of  three  or 
four  counties.  Old  Reifsneider  was  a  pathetic  char 
acter.  His  fame  was  wide.  v' 

Near  a  little  town  called  Watersville,  in  Green  Coun 
ty,  perhaps  four  miles  from  that  minor  center  of  hu 
man  activity,  there  was  a  place  or  precipice  locally 
known  as  the  Red  Cliff,  a  sheer  wall  of  red  sandstone, 
perhaps  a  hundred  feet  high,  which  raised  its  sharp 
face  for  half  a  mile  or  more  above  the  fruitful  corn 
fields  and  orchards  that  lay  beneath,  and  which  was 
surmounted  by  a  thick  grove  of  trees.  The  slope  that 
slowly  led  up  to  it  from  the  opposite  side  was  covered 
by  a  rank  growth  of  beech,  hickory,  and  ash,  through 
which  threaded  a  number  of  wagon-tracks  crossing  at 
various  angles.  In  fair  weather  it  had  become  old 
Reifsneider's  habit,  so  inured  was  he  by  now  to  the 
open,  to  make  his  bed  in  some  such  patch  of  trees 
as  this  to  fry  his  bacon  or  boil  his  eggs  at  the  foot  of 
some  tree  before  laying  himself  down  for  the  night. 
Occasionally,  so  light  and  inconsequential  was  his 
sleep,  he  would  walk  at  night.  More  often,  the  moon 
light  or  some  sudden  wind  stirring  in  the  trees  or  a 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  131 

reconnoitering  animal  arousing  him,  he  would  sit  up 

and  think,  or  pursue  his  quest  in  the  moonlight  or 

1  the  dark,  a  strange,  unnatural,  half  wild,  half  savage- 

j  looking  but  utterly  harmless  creature,  calling  at  lonely 

:  road  crossings,  staring  at  dark  and  shuttered  houses, 

and  wondering  where,  where  Phoebe  could  really  be. 

That    particular    lull    that    comes    in    the    systole- 
diastole  of  this  earthly  ball  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  invariably  aroused  him,  and  though  he  might  not 
!  go  any  farther  he  would  sit  up  and  contemplate  the 
darkness  or  the  stars,  wondering.     Sometimes  in  the 
s  strange  processes  of  his  mind  he  would  fancy  that 
^he  saw  moving  among  the  trees  the  figure  of  his  lost 
:  wife,  and  then  he  would  get  up  to  follow,  taking  his 
utensils,  always  on  a  string,  and  his  cane.     If  she 
seemed  to  evade  him  too  easily  he  would  run,  or 
plead,  or,  suddenly  losing  track  of  the  fancied  figure, 
stand  awed  or  disappointed,  grieving  for  the  moment 
iOver   the    almost    insurmountable    difficulties    of    his 
search. 

It  was  in  the  seventh  year  of  these  hopeless  pere 
grinations,  in  the  dawn  of  a  similar  springtime  to  that 
iin  which  his  wife  had  died,  that  he  came  at  last  one 
night  to  the  vicinity  of  this  self-same  patch  that 
crowned  the  rise  to  the  Red  Cliff.  His  far-flung  cane, 
used  as  a  divining-rod  at  the  last  cross-roads,  had 
brought  him  hither.  He  had  walked  many,  many 
miles.  It  was  after  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  he  was 
very  weary.  Long  wandering  and  little  eating  had 
left  him  but  a  shadow  of  his  former  self.  It  was  a 
question  now  not  so  much  of  physical  strength  but  of 
spiritual  endurance  which  kept  him  up.  He  had 
scarcely  eaten  this  day,  and  now  exhausted  he  set 


132  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

himself  down  in  the  dark  to  rest  and  possibly  to  sleep. 
Curiously  on  this  occasion  a  strange  suggestion  of 
the  presence  of  his  wife  surrounded  him.  It  would 
not  be  long  now,  he  counseled  with  himself,  although 
the  long  months  had  brought  him  nothing,  until  he 
should  see  her,  talk  to  her.  He  fell  asleep  after  a  time, 
his  head  on  his  knees.  At  midnight  the  moon  began 
to  rise,  and  at  two  in  the  morning,  his  wakeful  hour, 
was  a  large  silver  disk  shining  through  the  trees  to 
the  east.  He  opened  his  eyes  when  the  radiance  be 
came  strong,  making  a  silver  pattern  at  his  feet  and 
lighting  the  woods  with  strange  lusters  and  silvery, 
shadowy  forms.  As  usual,  his  old  notion  that  his 
wife  must  be  near  occurred  to  him  on  this  occasion, 
and  he  looked  about  him  with  a  speculative,  anticipa 
tory  eye.  What  was  it  that  moved  in  the  distant 
shadows  along  the  path  by  which  he  had  entered — 
a  pale,  flickering  will-o'-the-wisp  that  bobbed  grace 
fully  among  the  trees  and  riveted  his  expectant  gaze? 
Moonlight  and  shadows  combined  to  give  it  a  strange 
form  and  a  stranger  reality,  this  fluttering  of  bog- 
fire  or  dancing  of  wandering  fire-flies.  Was  it  truly 
his  lost  Phcebe  ?  By  a  circuitous  route  it  passed  about 
him,  and  in  his  fevered  state  he  fancied  that  he  could 
see  the  very  eyes  of  her,  not  as  she  was  when  he  last 
saw  her  in  the  black  dress  and  shawl  but  now  a 
strangely  younger  Phoebe,  gayer,  sweeter,  the  one 
whom  he  had  known  years  before  as  a  girl.  Old 
Reifsneider  got  up.  He  had  been  expecting  and 
dreaming  of  this  hour  all  these  years,  and  now  as  he 
saw  the  feeble  light  dancing  lightly  before  him  he 
peered  at  it  questioningly,  one  thin  hancf  in  his  gray 
hair. 


THE  LOST  PHCEBE  133 

Of  a  sudden  there  came  to  him  now  for  the  first 
time  in  many  years  the  full  charm  of  her  girlish  figure 
as  he  had  known  it  in  boyhood,  the  pleasing,  sympa 
thetic  smile,  the  brown  hair,  the  blue  sash  she  had 
once  worn  about  her  waist  at  a  picnic,  her  gay,  grace 
ful  movements.  He  walked  around  the  base  of  the 
tree,  straining  with  his  eyes,  forgetting  for  once  his 
cane  and  utensils,  and  following  eagerly  after.  On 
she  moved  before  him,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  of  the  spring, 
a  little  flame  above  her  head,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
among  the  small  saplings  of  ash  and  beech  and  the 
thick  trunks  of  hickory  and  elm  that  she  signaled 
with  a  young,  a  lightsome  hand. 

"O  Phcebe !  Phoebe !"  he  called.  "Have  yuh  really 
come  ?  Have  yuh  really  answered  me  ?"  And  hurry 
ing  faster,  he  fell  once,  scrambling  lamely  to  his  feet, 
only  to  see  the  light  in  the  distance  dancing  illusively 
on.  On  and  on  he  hurried  until  he  was  fairly  run- 

i  ning,  brushing  his  ragged  arms  against  the  trees,  strik 
ing  his  hands  and  face  against  impeding  twigs.     His 

;  hat  was  gone,  his  lungs  were  breathless,  his  reason 
quite  astray,  when  coming  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  he 

;  saw  her  below  among  a  silvery  bed  of  apple-trees  now 
blooming  in  the  spring. 

"O  Phoebe !"  he  called.  "O  Phcebe !  Oh,  no,  don't 
leave  me!"  And  feeling  the  lure  of  a  world  where 
love  was  young  and  Phoebe  as  this  vision  presented 
her,  a  delightful  epitome  of  their  quondam  youth,  he 
gave  a  gay  cry  of  "Oh,  wait,  Phcebe!"  and  leaped. 

Some  farmer-boys,  reconnoitering  this  region  of 
bounty  and  prospect  some  few  days  afterward,  found 
first  the  tin  utensils  tied  together  under  the  tree  where 
he  had  left  them,  and  then  later  at  the  foot  of  the 


134  THE  LOST  PHCEBE 

cliff,  pale,  broken,  but  elate,  a  molded  smile  of  peace 
and  delight  upon  his  lips,  his  body.  His  old  hat  was 
discovered  lying  under  some  low-growing  saplings 
the  twigs  of  which  had  held  it  back.  No  one  of  all 
the  simple  population  knew  how  eagerly  and  joyously 
he  had  found  his  lost  mate. 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

SHIRLEY  DEAR: 
You  don't  want  the  letters.  There  are  only  six 
of  them,  anyhow,  and  think,  they're  all  I  have  of  you  to 
cheer  me  on  my  travels.  What  good  would  they  be  to 
you — little  bits  of  notes  telling  me  you're  sure  to  meet 
me — but  me — think  of  me !  If  I  send  them  to  you,  you'll 
tear  them  up,  whereas  if  you  leave  them  with  me  I 
can  dab  them  with  musk  and  ambergris  and  keep  them 
in  a  little  silver  box,  always  beside  me. 

Ah,  Shirley  dear,  you  really  don't  know  how  sweet  I 
think  you  are,  how  dear!  There  isn't  a  thing  we  have 
ever  done  together  that  isn't  as  clear  in  my  mind  as  this 
great  big  skyscraper  over  the  way  here  in  Pittsburgh, 
;md  far  more  pleasing.  In  fact,  my  thoughts  of  you 
are  the  most  precious  and  delicious  things  I  have,  Shirley. 

But  I'm  too  young  to  marry  now.  You  know  that, 
Shirley,  don't  you?  I  haven't  placed  myself  in  any  way 
yet,  and  I'm  so  restless  that  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever 
will,  really.  Only  yesterday,  old  Roxbaum — that's  my 
new  employer  here — came  to  me  and  wanted  to  know  if 
I  would  like  an  assistant  overseership  on  one  of  his  coffee 
plantations  in  Java,  said  there  would  not  be  much  money 
in  it  for  a  year  or  two,  a  bare  living,  but  later  there 
would  be  more — and  I  jumped  at  it.  Just  the  thought  of 
Java  and  going  there  did  that,  although  I  knew  I  could 
make  more  staying  right  here.  Can't  you  see  how  it  is 
with  me,  Shirl?  I'm  too  restless  and  too  young.  I 
couldn't  take  care  of  you  right,  and  you  wouldn't  like 
me  after  a  while  if  I  didn't. 


136  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

But  ah,  Shirley  sweet,  I  think  the  dearest  things  of 
you !  There  isn't  an  hour,  it  seems,  but  some  little  bit  of 
you  comes  back — a  dear,  sweet  bit — the  night  we  sat  on 
the  grass  in  Tregore  Park  and  counted  the  stars  through 
the  trees ;  that  first  evening  at  Sparrows  Point  when  we 
missed  the  last  train  and  had  to  walk  to  Langley.  Re 
member  the  tree-toads,  Shirl  ?  And  then  that  warm  April 
Sunday  in  Atholby  woods !  Ah,  Shirl,  you  don't  want  the 
six  notes  !  Let  me  keep  them.  But  think  of  me,  will  you, 
sweet,  wherever  you  go  and  whatever  you  do  ?  I'll  always 
think  of  you,  and  wish  that  you  had  met  a  better,  saner 
man  than  me,  and  that  I  really  could  have  married  you 
and  been  all  you  wanted  me  to  be.  By-by,  sweet.  I  may 
start  for  Java  within  the  month.  If  so,  and  you  would 
want  them,  I'll  send  you  some  cards  from  there — if  they 
have  any. 

Your  worthless, 

ARTHUR. 


She  sat  and  turned  the  letter  in  her  hand,  dumb  with 
despair.  It  was  the  very  last  letter  she  would  ever  get 
from  him.  Of  that  she  was  certain.  He  was  gone 
now,  once  and  for  all.  She  had  written  him  only 
once,  not  making  an  open  plea  but  asking  him  to  re 
turn  her  letters,  and  then  there  had  come  this  tender 
but  evasive  reply,  saying  nothing  of  a  possible  return 
but  desiring  to  keep  her  letters  for  old  times'  sake — 
the  happy  hours  they  had  spent  together. 

The  happy  hours!  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes — the  happy 
hours ! 

In  her  memory  now,  as  she  sat  here  in  her  home 
after  the  day's  work,  meditating  on  all  that  had  been 
in  the  few  short  months  since  he  had  come  and  gone, 
was  a  world  of  color  and  light— a  color  and  a  light  so 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  137 

transfiguring  as  to  seem  celestial,  but  now,  alas,  wholly 
dissipated.  It  had  contained  so  much  of  all  she  had 
desired — love,  romance,  amusement,  laughter.  He 
had  been  so  gay  and  thoughtless,  or  headstrong,  so 
youthfully  romantic,  and  with  such  a  love  of  play 
and  change  and  to  be  saying  and  doing  anything  and 
everything.  Arthur  could  dance  in  a  gay  way,  whistle, 
sing  after  a  fashion,  play.  He  could  play  cards  and 
do  tricks,  and  he  had  such  a  superior  air,  so  genial 
and  brisk,  with  a  kind  of  innate  courtesy  in  it  and 
yet  an  intolerance  for  slowness  and  stodginess  or  any 
thing  dull  or  dingy,  such  as  characterized But 

here  her  thoughts  fled  from  him.  She  refused  to 
think  of  any  one  but  Arthur. 

Sitting  in  her  little  bedroom  now,  off  the  parlor 
on  the  ground  floor  in  her  home  in  Bethune  Street, 
and  looking  out  over  the  Kessels'  yard,  and  beyond 
that — there  being  no  fences  in  Bethune  Street — over 
the  "yards"  or  lawns  of  the  Pollards,  Bakers,  Cry- 
ders,  and  others,  she  thought  of  how  dull  it  must 
all  have  seemed  to  him,  with  his  fine  imaginative  mind 
and  experiences,  his  love  of  change  and  gayety,  his 
atmosphere  of  something  better  than  she  had  ever 
known..  How  little  she  had  been  fitted,  perhaps,  by 
beauty  or  temperament  to  overcome  this — the  some 
thing—dullness  in  her  work  or  her  home,  which  pos 
sibly  had  driven  him  away.  For,  although  many  had 
admired  her  to  date,  and  she  was  young  and  pretty 
in  her  simple  way  and  constantly  receiving  sugges 
tions  that  her  beauty  was  disturbing  to  some>  still,  he 
had  not  cared  for  her — he  had  gone. 

And  now,  as  she  meditated,  it  seemed  that  this 
scene,  and  all  that  it  stood  for — her  parents,  her  work,, 


138  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

her  daily  shuttling  to  and  fro  between  the  drug  com 
pany  for  which  she  worked  and  this  street  and  house 
— was  typical  of  her  life  and  what  she  was  destined 
to  endure  always.  Some  girls  were  so  much  more 
fortunate.  They  had  fine  clothes,  fine  homes,  a  world 
of  pleasure  and  opportunity  in  which  to  move.  They 
did  not  have  to  scrimp  and  save  and  work  to  pay 
their  own  way.  And  yet  she  had  always  been  com 
pelled  to  do  it,  but  had  never  complained  until  now — 
or  until  he  came,  and  after.  Bethune  Street,  with  its 
commonplace  front  yards  and  houses  nearly  all  alike, 
and  this  house,  so  like  the  others,  room  for  room 
and  porch  for  porch,  and  her  parents,  too,  really  like 
all  the  others,  had  seemed  good  enough,  quite  satis 
factory,  indeed,  until  then.  But  now,  now ! 

Here,  in  their  kitchen,  was  her  mother,  a  thin,  pale, 
but  kindly  woman,  peeling  potatoes  and  washing  let 
tuce,  and  putting  a  bit  of  steak  or  a  chop  or  a  piece 
of  liver  in  a  frying-pan  day  after  day,  morning  and 
evening,  month  after  month,  year  after  year.  And 
next  door  was  Mrs.  Kessel  doing  the  same  thing.  And 
next  door  Mrs.  Cryder.  And  next  door  Mrs.  Pollard. 
But,  until  now,  she  had  not  thought  it  so  bad.  But 
now — now — oh !  And  on  all  the  porches  or  lawns  all 
along  this  street  were  the  husbands  and  fathers, 
mostly  middle-aged  or  old  men  like  her  father,  read 
ing  their  papers  or  cutting  the  grass  before  dinner, 
or  smoking  and  meditating  afterward.  Her  father 
was  out  in  front  now,  a  stooped,  forbearing,  medita 
tive  soul,  who  had  rarely  anything  to  say — leaving 
it  all  to  his  wife,  her  mother,  but  who  was  fond  of 
her  in  his  dull,  quiet  *way.  He  was  a  pattern-maker 
by  trade,  and  had  come  into  possession  of  this  small, 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  139 

ordinary  home  via  years  of  toil  and  saving,  her 
mother  helping  him.  They  had  no  particular  religion, 
as  he  often  said,  thinking  reasonably  human  conduct 
a  sufficient  passport  to  heaven,  but  they  had  gone  oc 
casionally  to  the  Methodist  Church  over  in  Nicholas 
Street,  and  she  had  once  joined  it.  But  of  late  she 
had  not  gone,  weaned  away  by  the  other  common 
place  pleasures  of  her  world. 

And  then  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  dull  drift  of  things, 
as  she  now  saw  them  to  be,  he  had  come — Arthur 
Bristow — young,  energetic,  good-looking,  ambitious, 
dreamful,  and  instanter,  and  with  her  never  knowing 
quite  how,  the  whole  thing  had  been  changed.  He 
had  appeared  so  swiftly — out  of  nothing,  as  it  were. 

Previous  to  him  had  been  Barton  Williams,  stout, 
phlegmatic,  good-natured,  well-meaning,  who  was,  or 
had  been  before  Arthur  came,  asking  her  to  marry 
him,  and  whom  she  allowed  to  half  assume  that  she 
would.  She  had  liked  him  in  a  feeble,  albeit,  as  she 
thought,  tender  way,  thinking  him  the  kind,  accord 
ing  to  the  logic  of  her  neighborhood,  who  would  make 
her  a  good  husband,  and,  until  Arthur  appeared  on 
the  scene,  had  really  intended  to  marry  him.  It  was 
not  really  a  love-match,  as  she  saw  now,  but  she 
thought  it  was,  which  was  much  the  same  thing,  per 
haps.  But,  as  she  now  recalled,  when  Arthur  came, 
how  the  scales  fell  from  her  eyes!  In  a  trice,  as  it 
were,  nearly,  there  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth.  Arthur  had  arrived,  and  with  him  a  sense  of 
something  different. 

Mabel  Gove  had  asked  her  to  come  over  to  her 
house  in  Westleigh,  the  adjoining  suburb,  for  Thanks 
giving  eve  and  day,  and  without  a  thought  of  any- 


140  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

thing,  and  because  Barton  was  busy  handling  a  part 
of  the  work  in  the  despatcher's  office  of  the  Great 
Eastern  and  could  not  see  her,  she  had  gone.  And 
then,  to  her  surprise  and  strange,  almost  ineffable  de 
light,  the  moment  she  had  seen  him,  he  was  there — 
Arthur,  with  his  slim,  straight  figure  and  dark  hair 
and  eyes  and  clean-cut  features,  as  clean  and  attrac 
tive  as  those  of  a  coin.  And  as  he  had  looked  at  her 
and  smiled  and  narrated  humorous  bits  of  things  that 
had  happened  to  him,  something  had  come  over  her — 
a  spell — and  after  dinner  they  had  all  gone  round  to 
Edith  Barringer's  to  dance,  and  there  as  she  had 
danced  with  him,  somehow,  without  any  seeming 
boldness  on  his  part,  he  had  taken  possession  of  her, 
as  it  were,  drawn  her  close,  and  told  her  she  had  beauti 
ful  eyes  and  hair  and  such  a  delicately  rounded  chin, 
and  that  he  thought  she  danced  gracefully  and  was 
sweet.  She  had  nearly  fainted  with  delight. 

"Do  you  like  me  ?"  he  had  asked  in  one  place  in  the 
dance,  and,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  had  looked  up  into 
his  eyes,  and  from  that  moment  she  was  almost  mad 
over  him,  could  think  of  nothing  else  but  his  hair 
and  eyes  and  his  smile  and  his  graceful  figure. 

Mabel  Gove  had  seen  it  all,  in  spite  of  her  deter 
mination  that  no  one  should,  and  on  their  going  to  bed 
later,  back  at  Mabel's  home,  she  had  whispered : 

"Ah,  Shirley,  I  saw.     You  like  Arthur,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  think  he's  very  nice,"  Shirley  recalled  replying,, 
for  Mabel  knew  of  her  affair  with  Barton  and  liked 
him,  "but  I'm  not  crazy  over  him."  And  for  this  bit 
of  treason  she  had  sighed  in  her  dreams  nearly  all 
night. 

And  the  next  day,  true  to  a  request  and  a  promise 


0 

THE  SECOND  CHOICE  141 

made  by  him,  Arthur  had  called  again  at  Mabel's  to 
take  her  and  Mabel  to  a  "movie"  which  was  not  so  far 
away,  and  from  there  they  had  gone  to  an  ice-cream 
parlor,  and  during  it  all,  when  Mabel  was  not  looking, 
he  had  squeezed  her  arm  and  hand  and  kissed  her 
neck,  and  she  had  held  her  breath,  and  her  heart  had 
seemed  to  stop. 

"And  now  you're  going  to  let  me  come  out  to  your 
place  to  see  you,  aren't  you?"  he  had  whispered. 

And  she  had  replied,  "Wednesday  evening,"  and 
then  written  the  address  on  a  little  piece  of  paper  and 
given  it  to  him. 

But  now  it  was  all  gone,  gone ! 

This  house,  which  now  looked  so  dreary — how 
romantic  it  had  seemed  that  first  night  he  called — the 
front  room  with  its  commonplace  furniture,  and  later 
in  the  spring,  the  veranda,  with  its  vines  just  sprout 
ing,  and  the  moon  in  May.  Oh,  the  moon  in  May, 
and  June  and  July,  when  he  was  here !  How  she  had 
lied  to  Barton  to  make  evenings  for  Arthur,  and  oc 
casionally  to  Arthur  to  keep  him  from  contact  with 
Barton.  She  had  not  even  mentioned  Barton  to 
Arthur  because — because — well,  because  Arthur  was 
so  much  better,  and  somehow  (she  admitted  it  to  her 
self  now)  she  had  not  been  sure  that  Arthur  would 
care  for  her  long,  if  at  all,  and  then — well,  and  then, 
to  be  quite  frank,  Barton  might  be  good  enough.  She 
did  no't  exactly  hate  him  because  she  had  found  Arthur 
— not  at  all.  She  still  liked  him  in  a  way — he  was 
so  kind  and  faithful,  so  very  dull  and  straightforward 
and  thoughtful  of  her,  which  Arthur  was  certainly  not. 
Before  Arthur  had  appeared,  as  she  well  remembered, 
Barton  had  seemed  to  be  plenty  good  enough — in  fact, 


142  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

all  that  she  desired  in  a  pleasant,  companionable  way, 
calling  for  her,  taking  her  places,  bringing  her  flowers 
and  candy,  which  Arthur  rarely  did,  and  for  that,  if 
nothing  more,  she  could  not  help  continuing  to  like 
him  and  to  feel  sorry  for  him,  and,  besides,  as 
she  had  admitted  to  herself  before,  if  Arthur  left  her — • 
*****  Weren't  his  parents  better  off  than  hers — and 
hadn't  he  a  good  position  for  such  a  man  as  he — one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  month  and  the  certainty 
of  more  later  on?  A  little  while  before  meeting 
Arthur,  she  had  thought  this  very  good,  enough  for 
two  to  live  on  at  least,  and  she  had  thought  some 

of  trying  it  at  some  time  or  other — but  now — now 

And  that  first  night  he  had  called — how  well  she  re 
membered  it — how  it  had  transfigured  the  parlor  next 
this  in  which  she  was  now,  filling  it  with  something 
it  had  never  had  before,  and  the  porch  outside,  too, 
for  that  matter,  with  its  gaunt,  leafless  vine,  and  this 
street,  too,  even — dull,  commonplace  Bethune  Street. 
There  had  been  a  flurry  of  snow  during  the  afternoon 
while  she  was  working  at  the  store,  and  the  ground 
was  white  with  it.  All  the  neighboring  homes  seemed 
to  look  sweeter  and  happier  and  more  inviting  than 
ever  they  had  as  she  came  past  them,  with  their  lights 
peeping  from  under  curtains  and  drawn  shades.  She 
had  hurried  into  hers  and  lighted  the  big  red-shaded 
parlor  lamp,  her  one  artistic  treasure,  as  she  thought, 
and  put  it  near  the  piano,  between  it  and  the  window, 
and  arranged  the  chairs,  and  then  bustled  to  the  task 
of  making  herself  as  pleasing  as  she  might.  For  him 
she  had  gotten  out  her  one  best  filmy  house  dress  and 
done  up  her  hair  in  the  fashion  she  thought  most  be 
coming — and  that  he  had  not  seen  before — and  pow- 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  143 

dered  her  cheeks  and  nose  and  darkened  her  eyelashes, 
as  some  of  the  girls  at  the  store  did,  and  put  on  her 
new  gray  satin  slippers,  and  then,  being  so  arrayed, 
waited  nervously,  unable  to  eat  anything  or  to  think  of 
anything  but  him. 

And  at  last,  just  when  she  had  begun  to  think  he 
might  not  be  coming,  he  had  appeared  with  that  arch 
smile  and  a  "Hello!  It's  here  you  live,  is  it?  I  was 
wondering.  George,  but  you're  twice  as  sweet  as  I 
thought  you  were,  aren't  you  ?"  And  then,  in  the  little 
entryway,  behind  the  closed  door,  he  had  held  her  and 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth  a  dozen  times  while  she  pre 
tended  to  push  against  his  coat  and  struggle  and  say 
that  her  parents  might  hear. 

And,  oh,  the  room  afterward,  with  him  in  it  in  the 
red  glow  of  the  lamp,  and  with  his  pale  handsome  face 
made  handsomer  thereby,  as  she  thought!  He  had 
made  her  sit  near  him  and  had  held  her  hands  and  told 
her  about  his  work  and  his  dreams — all  that  he  ex 
pected  to  do  in  the  future — and  then  she  had  found 
herself  wishing  intensely  to  share  just  such  a  life — his 
life — anything  that  he  might  wish  to  do.;  only,  she  kept 
wondering,  with  a  slight  pain,  whether  he  would  want 
her  to — he  was  so  young,  dreamful,  ambitious,  much 
younger  and  more  dreamful  than  herself,  although,  in 
reality,  he  was  several  years  older. 

And  then  followed  that  glorious  period  from  De 
cember  to  this  late  September,  in  which  everything 
which  was  worth  happening  in  love  had  happened.  Oh, 
those  wondrous  days  the  following  spring,  when,  with 
the  first  burst  of  buds  and  leaves,  he  had  taken  her 
one  Sunday  to  Atholby,  where  all  the  great  woods 
were,  and  they  had  hunted  spring  beauties  in  the  grass, 


144  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

and*  sat  on  a  slope  and  looked  at  the  river  below  and 
watched  some  boys  fixing  up  a  sailboat  and  setting 
forth  in  it  quite  as  she  wished  she  and  Arthur  might 
be  doing — going  somewhere  together — far,  far  away 
from  all  commonplace  things  and  life!  And  then  he 
had  slipped  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her  cheek 
and  neck,  and  tweaked  her  ear  and  smoothed  her  hair 
— and  oh,  there  on  the  grass,  with  the  spring  flowers 
about  her  and  a  canopy  of  small  green  leaves  above, 
the  perfection  of  love  had  come — love  so  wonderful 
that  the  mere  thought  of  it  made  her  eyes  brim  now ! 
And  then  had  been  days,  Saturday  afternoons  and 
Sundays,  at  Atholby  and  Sparrows  Point,  where  the 
great  beach  was,  and  in  lovely  Tregore  Park,  a  mile  or 
two  from  her  home,  where  they  could  go  of  an  evening 
and  sit  in  or  near  the  pavilion  and  have  ice-cream  and 
dance  or  watch  the  dancers.  Oh,  the  stars,  the  winds, 
the  summer  breath  of  those  days!  Ah,  me!  Ah,  me! 

Naturally,  her  parents  had  wondered  from  the  first 
about  her  and  Arthur,  and  her  and  Barton,  since  Bar 
ton  had  already  assumed  a  proprietary  interest  in  her 
and  she  had  seemed  to  like  him.  But  then  she  was  an 
only  child  and  a  pet,  and  used  to  presuming  on  that, 
and  they  could  not  think  of  saying  anything  to  her. 
After  all,  she  was  young  and  pretty  and  was  entitled 
to  change  her  mind;  only,  only — she  had  had  to  in 
dulge  in  a  career  of  lying  and  subterfuge  in  connec 
tion  with  Barton,  since  Arthur  was  headstrong  and 
wanted  every  evening  that  he  chose — to  call  for  her  at 
the  store  and  keep  her  down-town  to  dinner  and  a 
show. 

Arthur  had  never  been  like  Barton,  shy,  phlegmatic, 
obedient,  waiting  long  and  patiently  for  each  little 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  145 

favor,  but,  instead,  masterful  and  eager,  rifling  her 
of  kisses  and  caresses  and  every  delight  of  love,  and 
teasing  and  playing  with  her  as  a  cat  would  a  mouse. 
She  could  never  resist  him.  He  demanded  of  her  her 
time  and  her  affection  without  let  or  hindrance.  He 
was  not  exactly  selfish  or  cruel,  as  some  might  have 
been,  but  gay  and  unthinking  at  times,  unconsciously 
so,  and  yet  loving  and  tender  at  others — nearly  always 
so.  But  always  he  would  talk  of  things  in  the  future 
as  if  they  really  did  not  include  her — and  this  troubled 
her  greatly — of  places  he  might  go,  things  he  might 
do,  which,  somehow,  he  seemed  to  think  or  assume 
that  she  could  not  or  would  not  do  with  him.  He  was 
always  going  to  Australia  sometime,  he  thought,  in  a 
business  way,  or  to  South  Africa,  or  possibly  to  India. 
He  never  seemed  to  have  any  fixed  clear  future  for 
himself  in  mind. 

A  dreadful  sense  of  helplessness  and  of  impending 
disaster  came  over  her  at  these  times,  of  being  in 
volved  in  some  predicament  over  which  she  had  no 
control,  and  which  would  lead  her  on  to  some  sad 
end.  Arthur,  although  plainly  in  love,  as  she  thought, 
and  apparently  delighted  with  her,  might  not  always 
love  hei.  She  began,  timidly  at  first  (and  always, 
for  that  matter),  to  ask  him  pretty,  seeking  questions 
about  himself  and  her,  whether  their  future  was  cer 
tain  to  be  together,  whether  he  really  wanted  her — 
loved  her — whether  he  might  not  want  to  marry  some 
one  else  or  just  her,  and  whether  she  wouldn't  look 
nice  in  a  pearl  satin  wedding-dress  with  a  long  creamy 
veil  and  satin  slippers  and  a  bouquet  of  bridal-wreath. 
She  had  been  so  slowly  but  surely  saving  to  that  end, 
even  before  he  came,  in  connection  with  Barton ;  only, 


146  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

after  he  came,  all  thought  of  the  import  of  it  had 
been  transferred  to  him.  But  now,  also,  she  was  be 
ginning  to  ask  herself  sadly,  "Would  it  ever  be?"  He 
was  so  airy,  so  inconsequential,  so  ready  to  say :  "Yes, 
yes,"  and  "Sure,  sure!  That's  right!  Yes,  indeedy; 
you  bet!  Say,  kiddie,  but  you'll  look  sweet!"  but, 
somehow,  it  had  always  seemed  as  if  this  whole  thing 
were  a  glorious  interlude  and  that  it  could  not  last. 
Arthur  was  too  gay  and  ethereal  and  too  little  set 
tled  in  his  own  mind.  His  ideas  of  travel  and  living 
in  different  cities,  finally  winding  up  in  New  York 
or  San  Francisco,  but  never  with  her  exactly  until 
she  asked  him,  was  too  ominous,  although  he  always 
reassured  her  gaily:  "Of  course!  Of  course!"  But 
somehow  she  could  never  believe  it  really,  and  it  made 
her  intensely  sad  at  times,  horribly  gloomy.  So  often 
she  wanted  to  cry,  and  she  could  scarcely  tell  why. 

And  then,  because  of  her  intense  affection  for  him, 
she  had  finally  quarreled  with  Barton,  or  nearly  that, 
if  one  could  say  that  one  ever  really  quarreled  with 
him.  It  had  been  because  of  a  certain  Thursday  even 
ing  a  few  weeks  before  about  which  she  had  disap 
pointed  him.  In  a  fit  of  generosity,  knowing  that  Ar 
thur  was  coming  Wednesday,  and  because  Barton  had 
stopped  in  at  the  store  to  see  her,  she  had  told  Ifim  that 
he  might  come,  having  regretted  it  afterward,  so  en 
amored  was  she  of  Arthur.  And  then  when  Wednes 
day  came,  Arthur  had  changed  his  mind,  telling  her 
he  would  come  Friday  instead,  but  on  Thursday  even 
ing  he  had  stopped  in  at  the  store  and  asked  her 
to  go  to  Sparrows  Point,  with  the  result  that  she  had 
no  time  to  notify  Barton.  He  had  gone  to  the  house 
and  sat  with  her  parents  until  ten-thirty,  and  then,  a 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  147 

few  days  later,  although  she  had  written  him  offering 
an  excuse,  had  called  at  the  store  to  complain  slightly. 

"Do  you  think  you  did  just  right,  Shirley?  You 
might  have  sent  word,  mightn't  you?  Who  was  it — 
the  new  fellow  you  won't  tell  me  about?" 

Shirley  flared  on  the  instant. 

"Supposing  it  was?  What's  it  to  you?  I  don't 
belong  to  you  yet,  do  I  ?  I  told  you  there  wasn't  any 
one,  and  I  wish  you'd  let  me  alone  about  that.  I 
couldn't  help  it  last  Thursday — that's  all — and  I  don't 
want  you  to  be  fussing  with  me — that's  all.  If  you 
don't  want  to,  you  needn't  come  any  more,  anyhow." 

"Don't  say  that,  Shirley,"  pleaded  Barton.  "You 
don't  mean  that.  I  won't  bother  you,  though,  if  you 
don't  want  me  any  more." 

And  because  Shirley  sulked,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do,  he  had  gone  and  she  had  not  seen  him  since. 

And  then  sometime  later  when  she  had  thus  broken 
with  Barton,  avoiding  the  railway  station  where  he 
worked,  Arthur  had  failed  to  come  at  his  appointed 
time,  sending  no  word  until  the  next  day,  when  a 
note  came  to  the  store  saying  that  he  had  been  out  of 
town  for  his  firm  over  Sunday  and  had  not  been 
able  to 'notify  her,  but  that  he  would  call  Tuesday. 
It  was  an  awful  blow.  At  the  time,  Shirley  had  a 
vision  of  what  was  to  follow.  It  seemed  for  the  mo 
ment  as  if  the  whole  world  had  suddenly  been  reduced 
to  ashes,  that  there  was  nothing  but  black  charred 
cinders  anywhere — she  felt  that  about  all  life.  Yet 
it  all  came  to  her  clearly  then  that  this  was  but  the  be 
ginning  of  just  such  days  and  just  such  excuses,  and 
that  soon,  soon,  he  would  come  no  more.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  tired  of  her  and  soon  he  would  not 


148  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

even  make  excuses.  She  felt  it,  and  it  froze  and 
terrified  her. 

And  then,  soon  after,  the  indifference  which  she 
feared  did  follow — almost  created  by  her  own  thoughts, 
as  it  were.  First,  it  was  a  meeting  he  had  to  attend 
somewhere  one  Wednesday  night  when  he  was  to  have 
come  for  her.  Then  he  was  going  out  of  town  again, 
over  Sunday.  Then  he  was  going  away  for  a  whole 
week — it  was  absolutely  unavoidable,  he  said,  his  com 
mercial  duties  were  increasing — and  once  he  had  cas 
ually  remarked  that  nothing  could  stand  in  the  way 
where  she  was  concerned — never!  She  did  not  think 
of  reproaching  him  with  this;  she  was  too  proud. 
If  he  was  going,  he  must  go.  She  would  not  be 
willing  to  say  to  herself  that  she  had  ever  attempted 
to  hold  any  man.  But,  just  the  same,  she  was  agon 
ized  by  the  thought.  When  he  was  with  her,  he  seemed 
tender  enough;  only,  at  times,  his  eyes  wandered  and 
he  seemed  slightly  bored.  Other  girls,  particularly 
pretty  ones,  seemed  to  interest  him  as  much  as  she 
did. 

And  the  agony  of  the  long  days  when  he  did  not 
come  any  more  for  a  week  or  two  at  a  time!  The 
waiting,  the  brooding,  the  wondering,  at  the  store  and 
here  in  her  home — in  the  former  place  making  mistakes 
at  times  because  she  could  not  get  her  mind  off  him  and 
being  reminded  of  them,  and  here  at  her  own  home  at 
nights,  being  so  absent-minded  that  her  parents  re 
marked  on  it.  She  felt  sure  that  her  parents  must 
be  noticing  that  Arthur  was  not  coming  any  more, 
or  as  much  as  he  had — for  she  pretended  to  be  going 
out  with  him,  going  to  Mabel  Cove's  instead — and 
that  Barton  had  deserted  her  too,  he  having  been 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  149 

driven  off  by  her  indifference,  never  to  come  any 
more,  perhaps,  unless  she  sought  him  out. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  thought  of  saving  her 
own  face  by  taking  up  with  Barton  once  more  oc 
curred  to  her,  of  using  him  and  his  affections  and  faith 
fulness  and  dulness,  if  you  will,  to  cover  up  her  own 
dilemma.  Only,  this  ruse  was  not  to  be  tried  until 
she  had  written  Arthur  this  one  letter — a  pretext 
merely  to  see  if  there  was  a  single  ray  of  hope,  a  let 
ter  to  be  written  in  a  gentle-enough  way  and  asking 
for  the  return  of  the  few  notes  she  had  written  him. 
She  had  not  seen  him  now  in  nearly  a  month,  and 
the  last  time  she  had,  he  had  said  he  might  soon  be 
compelled  to  leave  her  awhile — to  go  to  Pittsburgh 
to  work.  And  it  was  his  reply  to  this  that  she  now 
held  in  her  hand — from  Pittsburgh !  It  was  frightful ! 
The  future  without  him ! 

But  Barton  would  never  know  really  what  had  trans 
pired,  if  she  went  back  to  him.  In  spite  of  all  her 
delicious  hours  with  Arthur,  she  could  call  him  back, 
she  felt  sure.  She  had  never  really  entirely  dropped 
him,  and  he  knew  it.  He  had  bored  her  dreadfully  on 
occasion,  arriving  on  off  days  when  Arthur  was  not 
about,  with  flowers  or  candy,  or  both,  and  sitting  on 
the  porch  steps  and  talking  of  the  railroad  business  and 
of  the  whereabouts  and  doings  of  some  of  their  old 
friends.  It  was  shameful,  she  had  thought  at  times, 
to  see  a  man  so  patient,  so  hopeful,  so  good-natured 
as  Barton,  deceived  in  this  way,  and  by  her,  who  was 
so  miserable  over  another.  Her  parents  must  see  and 
know,  she  had  thought  at  these  times,  but  still,  what 
else  was  she  to  do? 

"I'm  a  bad  girl,"  she  kept  telling  herself.    "I'm  all 


150  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

wrong.  What  right  have  I  to  offer  Barton  what  is 
left?"  But  still,  somehow,  she  realized  that  Barton, 
if  she  chose  to  favor  him,  would  only  to  be  too  grate 
ful  for  even  the  leavings  of  others  where  she  was 
concerned,  and  that  even  yet,  if  she  but  deigned  to 
crook  a  finger,  she  could  have  him.  He  was  so  simple, 
so  good-natured,  so  stolid  and  matter  of  fact,  so 
different  to  Arthur  whom  (she  could  not  help  smiling 
at  the  thought  of  it)  she  was  loving  now  about  as 
Barton  loved  her — slavishly,  hopelessly. 

And  then,  as  the  days  passed  and  Arthur  did  not 
write  any  more — just  this  one  brief  note — she  at  first 
grieved  horribly,  and  then  in  a  fit  of  numb  despair 
attempted,  bravely  enough  from  one  point  of  view, 
to  adjust  herself  to  the  new  situation.  Why  should 
she  despair?  Why  die  of  agony  where  there  were 
plenty  who  would  still  sigh  for  her — Barton  among 
others?  She  was  young,  pretty,  very — many  told  her 
so.  She  could,  if  she  chose,  achieve  a  vivacity  which 
she  did  not  feel.  Why  should  she  brook  this  unkind- 
ness  without  a  thought  of  retaliation?  Why  shouldn't 
she  enter  upon  a  gay  and  heartless  career,  indulging 
in  a  dozen  flirtations  at  once — dancing  and  killing  all 
thoughts  of  Arthur  in  a  round  of  frivolities?  There 
were  many  who  beckoned  to  her.  She  stood  at  her 
counter  in  the  drug  store  on  many  a  day  and  brooded 
over  this,  but  at  the  thought  of  which  one  to  begin 
with,  she  faltered.  After  her  late  love,  all  were  so 
tame,  for  the  present  anyhow. 

And  then — and  then — always  there  was  Barton, 
the  humble  or  faithful,  to  whom  she  had  been  so  un 
kind  and  whom  she  had  used  and  whom  she  still  really 
liked.  So  often  self-reproaching  thoughts  in  connec- 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  151 

tion  with  him  crept  over  her.  He  must  have  known, 
must  have  seen  how  badly  she  was  using  him  all  this 
while,  and  yet  he  had  not  failed  to  come  and  come, 
until  she  had  actually  quarreled  with  him,  and  any  one 
would  have  seen  that  it  was  literally  hopeless.  She 
could  not  help  remembering,  especially  now  in  her  pain, 
that  he  adored  her.  He  was  not  calling  on  her  now 
at  all — by  her  indifference  she  had  finally  driven  him 
away — but  a  word,  a  word —  She  waited  for  days, 
weeks,  hoping  against  hope,  and  then 

The  office  of  Barton's  superior  in  the  Great  Eastern 
terminal  had  always  made  him  an  easy  object  for  her 
blandishments,  coming  and  going,  as  she  frequently 
did,  via  this  very  station.  He  was  in  the  office  of  the 
assistant  train-despatcher  on  the  ground  floor,  where 
passing  to  and  from  the  local,  which,  at  times,  was 
quicker  than  a  street-car,  she  could  easily  see  him  by 
peering  in;  only,  she  had  carefully  avoided  him  for 
nearly  a  year.  If  she  chose  now,  and  would  call  for  a 
message-blank  at  the  adjacent  telegraph-window  which 
was  a  part  of  his  room,  and  raised  her  voice  as  she 
often  had  in  the  past,  he  could  scarcely  fail  to  hear, 
if'he  did  not  see  her.  And  if  he  did,  he  would  rise 
and  come  over — of  that  she  was  sure,  for  he  never 
could  resist  her.  It  had  been  a  wile  of  hers  in  the 
old  days  to  do  this  or  to  make  her  presence  felt  by 
idling  outside.  After  a  month  of  brooding,  she  felt 
that  she  must  act — her  position  as  a  deserted  girl  was 
too  much.  She  could  not  stand  it  any  longer  really — 
the  eyes  of  her  mother,  for  one. 

It  was  six-fifteen  one  evening  when,  coming  out  of 
the  store  in  which  she  worked,  she  turned  her  step 


152  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

disconsolately  homeward.  Her  heart  was  heavy,  her 
face  rather  pale  and  drawn.  She  had  stopped  in  the 
store's  retiring-room  before  coming  out  to  add  to  her 
charms  as  much  as  possible  by  a  little  powder  and 
rouge  and  to  smooth  her  hair.  It  would  not  take  much 
to  reallure  her  former  sweetheart,  she  felt  sure — and 
yet  it  might  not  be  so  easy  after  all.  Suppose  he  had 
found  another?  But  she  could  not  believe  that.  It 
had  scarcely  been  long  enough  since  he  had  last  at 
tempted  to  see  her,  and  he  was  really  so  very,  very  fond 
of  her  and  so  faithful.  He  was  too  slow  and  certain  in 
his  choosing — he  had  been  so  with  her.  Still,  who 
knows?  With  this  thought,  she  went  forward  in  the 
evening,  feeling  for  the  first  time  the  shame  and  pain 
that  comes  of  deception,  the  agony  of  having  to  re 
linquish  an  ideal  and  the  feeling  of  despair  that  comes 
to  those  who  find  themselves  in  the  position  of  sup 
pliants,  stooping  to  something  which  in  better  days 
and  better  fortune  they  would  not  know.  Arthur  was 
the  cause  of  this. 

When  she  reached  the  station,  the  crowd  that  usually 
filled  it  at  this  hour  was  swarming.  There  were  so 
many  pairs  like  Arthur  and  herself  laughing  and  hur 
rying  away  or  so  she  felt.  First  glancing  in  the  small 
mirror  of  a  weighing  scale  to  see  if  she  were  still  of 
her  former  charm,  she  stopped  thoughtfully  at  a  little 
flower  stand  which  stood  outside,  and  for  a  few  pen 
nies  purchased  a  tiny  bunch  of  violets.  She  then  went 
inside  and  stood  near  the  window,  peering  first  fur 
tively  to  see  if  he  were  present.  He  was.  Bent  over 
his  work,  a  green  shade  over  his  eyes,  she  could  see 
his  stolid,  genial  figure  at  a  table.  Stepping  back  a 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  153 

moment  to  ponder,  she  finally  went  forward  and,  in 
a  clear  voice,  asked, 

"May  I  have  a  blank,  please  ?" 

The  infatuation  of  the  discarded  Barton  was  such 
that  it  brought  him  instantly  to  his  feet.  In  his 
stodgy,  stocky  way  he  rose,  his  eyes  glowing  with  a 
friendly  hope,  his  mouth  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  came 
over.  At  the  sight  of  her,  pale,  but  pretty — paler 
and  prettier,  really,  than  he  had  ever  seen  her — he 
thrilled  dumbly. 

"How  are  you,  Shirley?"  he  asked  sweetly,  as  he 
drew  near,  his  eyes  searching  her  face  hopefully.  He 
had  not  seen  her  for  so  long  that  he  was  intensely 
hungry,  and  her  paler  beauty  appealed  to  him  more 
than  ever.  Why  wouldn't  she  have  him  ?  he  was  ask 
ing  himself.  Why  wouldn't  his  persistent  love  yet 
win  her?  Perhaps  it  might.  "I  haven't  seen  you  in 
a  month  of  Sundays,  it  seems.  How  are  the  folks?" 

"They're  all  right,  Bart,"  she  smiled  archly,  "and 
so  am  I.  How  have  you  been?  It  has  been  a  long 
time  since  I've  seen  you.  I've  been  wondering  how 
you  were.  Have  you  been  all  right?  I  was  just  go 
ing  to  send  a  message." 

As  he  had  approached,  Shirley  had  pretended  at 
first  not  to  see  him,  a  moment  later  to  affect  surprise, 
although  she  was  really  suppressing  a  heavy  sigh.  The 
sight  of  him,  after  Arthur,  was  not  reassuring.  Could 
she  really  interest  herself  in  him  any  more?  Could 
she?  . 

"Sure,  sure,"  he  replied  genially;  "I'm  always  all 
right.  You  couldn't  kill  me,  you  know.  Not  going 
away,  are  you,  Shirl?"  he  queried  interestedly. 

"No;  I'm  just  telegraphing  to  Mabel.     She  prom- 


154  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

ised  to  meet  me  to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  be  sure 
she  will." 

"You  don't  come  past  here  as  often  as  you  did, 
Shirley,"  he  complained  tenderly.  "At  least,  I  don't 
seem  to  see  you  so  often,"  he  added  with  a  smile.  "It 
isn't  anything  I  have  done,  is  it?"  he  queried,  and  then, 
when  she  protested  quickly,  added:  "What's  the 
trouble,  Shirl?  Haven't  been  sick,  have  you?" 

She  affected  all  her  old  gaiety  and  ease,  feeling  as 
though  she  would  like  to  cry. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  returned;  "I've  been  all  right.  I've 
been  going  through  the  other  door,  I  suppose,  or  com 
ing  in  and  going  out  on  the  Langdon  Avenue  car." 
(This  was  true,  because  she  had  been  wanting  to  avoid 
him.)  "I've  been  in  such  a  hurry,  most  nights,  that 
I  haven't  had  time  to  stop,  Bart.  You  know  how  late 
the  store  keeps  us  at  times." 

He  remembered,  too,  that  in  the  old  days  she  had 
made  time  to  stop  or  meet  him  occasionally. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said  tactfully.  "But  you  haven't 
been  to  any  of  our  old  card-parties  either  of  late,  have 
you?  At  least,  I  haven't  seen  you.  I've  gone  to  two 
or  three,  thinking  you  might  be  there." 

That  was  another  thing  Arthur  had  done — broken 
up  her  interest  in  these  old  store  and  neighborhood  par 
ties  and  a  banjo-and-mandolin  club  to  which  she  had 
once  belonged.  They  had  all  seemed  so  pleasing  and 
amusing  in  the  old  days — but  now —  *  *  *  *  In 
those  days  Bart  had  been  her  usual  companion  when 
his  work  permitted. 

"No,"  she  replied  evasively,  but  with  a  forced  air 
of  pleasant  remembrance;  "I  have  often  thought  of 
how  much  fun  we  had  at  those,  though.  It  was  a 


THE  SECOND  crfOi    ._  155 

shame  to  drop  them.  You  haven't  seen  Harry  Stull 
or  Trirfa  Task  recently,  have  you?"  she  inquired,  more 
to  be  saying  something  than  for  any  interest  she  felt. 

He  shook  his  head  negatively,  then  added : 

"Yes,  I  did,  too;  here  in  the  waiting-room  a  few 
nights  ago.  They  were  coming  down-town  to  a  thea 
ter,  I  suppose." 

His  face  fell  slightly  as  he  recalled  how  it  had  been 
their  custom  to  do  this,  and  what  their  one  quarrel  had 
been  about.  Shirley  noticed  it.  She  felt  the  least  bit 
sorry  for  him,  but  much  more  for  herself,  coming  back 
so  disconsolately  to  all  this. 

"Well,  you're  looking  as  pretty  as  ever,  Shirley," 
he  continued,  noting  that  she  had  not  written  the  tele 
gram  and  that  there  was  something  wistful  in  her 
glance.  "Prettier,  I  think,"  and  she  smiled  sadly. 
Every  word  that  she  tolerated  from  him  was  as  so 
much  gold  to  him,  so  much  of  dead  ashes  to  her.  "You 
wouldn't  Like  to  come  down  some  evening  this  week 
and  see  'The  Mouse-Trap/  would  you?  We  haven't 
been  to  a  theater  together  in  I  don't  know  when." 
His  eyes  sought  hers  in  a  hopeful,  doglike  way. 

So — she  could  have  him  again — that  was  the  pity 
of  it!  To  have  what  she  really  did  not  want,  did  not 
care  for!  At  the  least  nod  now  he  would  come,  and 
this  very  devotion  made  it  all  but  worthless,  and  so 
sad.  She  ought  to  marry  him  now  for  certain,  if  she 
began  in  this  way,  and  could  in  a  month's  time  if  she 
chose,  but  oh,  oh —  could  she?  For  the  moment  she 
decided  that  she  could  not,  would  not.  If  he  had  only 
repulsed  her — told  her  to  go — ignored  her — but  no; 
it  was  her  fate  to  be  loved  by  him  in  this  moving, 
pleading  way,  and  hers  not  to  love  him  as  she  wished 


156  ^JOND  CHOICE 

to  love — to  be  loved.  Plainly,  he  needed  some  one 

like  her,  whereas  she,  she .  She  turned  a  little 

sick,  a  sense  of  the  sacrilege  of  gaiety  at  this  time 
creeping  into  her  voice,  and  exclaimed : 

"No,  no!"  Then  seeing  his  face  change,  a, heavy 
sadness  come  over  it,  "Not  this  week,  anyhow,  I  mean" 
("Not  so  soon,"  she  had  almost  said).  "I  have  sev 
eral  engagements  this  week  and  I'm  not  feeling  well. 
But" — seeing  his  face  change,  and  the  thought  of  her 
own  state  returning — "you  might  come  out  to  the 
house  some  evening  instead,  and  then  we  can  go  some 
other  time." 

His  face  brightened  intensely.  It  was  wonderful 
how  he  longed  to  be  with  her,  how  the  least  favor  from 
her  comforted  and  lifted  him  up.  She  could  see  also 
now,  however,  how  little  it  meant  to  her,  how  little 
it  could  ever  mean,  even  if  to  him  it  was  heaven.  The 
old  relationship  would  have  to  be  resumed  in  toto, 
once  and  for  all,  but  did  she  want  it  that  way  now 
that  she  was  feeling  so  miserable  about  this  other 
affair  ?  As  she  meditated,  these  various  moods  racing 
to  and  fro  in  her  mind,  Barton  seemed  to  notice,  and 
now  it  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  he  had  not  pursued 
her  enough — was  too  easily  put  off.  She  probably  did 
like  him  yet.  This  evening,  her  present  visit,  seemed 
to  prove  it. 

"Sure,  sure!"  he  agreed.  "I'd  like  that.  I'll  come 
out  Sunday,  if  you  say.  We  can  go  any  time  to  the 
play.  I'm  sorry,  Shirley,  if  you're  not  feeling  well. 
I've  thought  of  you  a  lot  these  days.  I'll  come  out 
Wednesday,  if  you  don't  mind." 

She  smiled  a  wan  smile.  It  was  all  so  much  easier 
than  she  had  expected — her  triumph — and  so  ashenlike 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  .  157 

in  consequence,  a  flavor  of  dead-sea  fruit  and  defeat 
about  it  all,  that  it  was  pathetic.  How  could  she,  after 
Arthur?  How  could  he,  really? 

"Make  it  Sunday,"  she  pleaded,  naming  the  farthest 
day  off,  and  then  hurried  out. 

Her  faithful  lover  gazed  after  her,  while  she  suf 
fered,  an  intense  nausea.  To  think — to  think — it 
should  all  be  coming  to  this!  She  had  not  used  her 
telegraph-blank,  and  now  had  forgotten  all  about  it. 
It  was  not  the  simple  trickery  that  discouraged  her, 
but  her  own  future  which  could  find  no  better  outlet 
than  this,  could  not  rise  above  it  apparently,  or  that 
she  had  no  heart  to  make  it  rise  above  it.  Why 
couldn't  she  interest  herself  in  some  one  different  to 
Barton  ?  Why  did  she  have  to  return  to  him  ?  Why 
not  wait  and  meet  some  other — ignore  him  as  be 
fore?  But  no,  no;  nothing  mattered  now — no  one — 
it  might  as  well  be  Barton  really  as  any  one,  and  she 
would  at  least  make  him  happy  and  at  the  same  time 
solve  her  own  problem.  She  went  out  into  the  train- 
shed  and  climbed  into  her  train.  Slowly,  after  the 
usual  pushing  and  jostling  of  a  crowd,  it  drew  out 
toward  Latonia,  that  suburban  region  in  which  her 
home  lay.  As  she  rode,  she  thought. 

"What  have  I  just  done?  What  am  I  doing?"  she 
kept  asking  herself  as  the  clacking  wheels  on  the  rails 
fell  into  a  rhythmic  dance  and  the  houses  of  the  brown, 
dry,  endless  city  fled  past  in  a  maze.  "Severing  my 
self  decisively  from  the  past — the  happy  past — for 
supposing,  once  I  am  married,  Arthur  should  return 
and  want  me  again — suppose !  Suppose !" 

Below  at  one  place,  under  a  shed,  were  some  mar 
ket-gardeners  disposing  of  the  last  remnants  of  their 


158  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

day's  wares — a  sickly,  dull  life,  she  thought.  Here 
was  Rutgers  Avenue,  with  its  line  of  red  street-cars, 
many  wagons  and  tracks  and  counter-streams  of 
automobiles — how  often  had  she  passed  it  morning 
and  evening  in  a  shuttle-like  way,  and  how  often 
would,  unless  she  got  married!  And  here,  now,  was 
the  river  flowing  smoothly  between  its  banks  lined  with 
coal-pockets  and  wharves — away,  away  to  the  huge 
deep  sea  which  she  and  Arthur  had  enjoyed  so  much. 
Oh,  to  be  in  a  small  boat  and  drift  out,  out  into  the 
endless,  restless,  pathless  deep!  Somehow  the  sight 
of  this  water,  to-night  and  every  night,  brought  back 
those  evenings  in  the  open  with  Arthur  at  Sparrows 
Point,  the  long  line  of  dancers  in  Eckert's  Pa 
vilion,  the  woods  at  Atholby,  the  park,  with  the  danc 
ers  in  the  pavilion — she  choked  back  a  sob.  Once 
Arthur  had  come  this  way  with  her  on  just  such  an 
evening  as  this,  pressing  her  hand  and  saying  how 
wonderful  she  was.  Oh,  Arthur!  Arthur!  And 
now  Barton  was  to  take  his  old  place  again — forever, 
no  doubt.  She  could  not  trifle  with  her  life  longer 
in  this  foolish  way,  or  his.  What  was  the  use?  But 
think  of  it! 

Yes,  it  must  be — forever  now,  she  told  herself. 
She  must  marry.  Time  would  be  slipping  by  and  she 
would  become  too  old.  It  was  her  only  future — mar 
riage.  It  was  the  only  future  she  had  ever  contem 
plated  really,  a  home,  children,  the  love  of  some  man 
whom  she  could  love  as  she  loved  Arthur.  Ah,  what 
a  happy  home  that  would  have  been  for  her!  But 
now,  now 

But  there  must  be  no  turning  back  now,  either. 
There  was  no  other  way.  If  Arthur  ever  came  back — 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  159 

but  fear  not,  he  wouldn't!  She  had  risked  so  much 
and  lost — lost  him.  Her  little  venture  into  true  love 
had  been  such  a  failure.  Before  Arthur  had  come  all 
;had  been  well  enough.  Barton,  stout  and  simple  and 
frank  and  direct,  had  in  some  way — how,  she  could 
scarcely  realize  now — offered  sufficient  of  a  future. 
But  now,  now !  He  had  enough  money,  she  knew,  to 
build  a  cottage  for  the  two  of  them.  He  had  told  her 
so.  He  would  do  his  best  always  to  make  her  happy, 
she  was  sure  of  that.  They  could  live  in  about  the 
state  her  parents  were  living  in — or  a  little  better,  not 
much — and  would  never  want.  No  doubt  there  would 
be  children,  because  he  craved  them — several  of  them 
—and  that  would  take  up  her  time,  long  years  of  it — 
the  sad,  gray  years !  But  then  Arthur,  whose  children 
she  would  have  thrilled  to  bear,  would  be  no  more,  a 
mere  memory — think  of  that! — and  Barton,  the  dull, 
the  commonplace,  would  have  achieved  his  finest  dream 
— and  why? 

Because  love  was  a  failure  for  her — that  was  why 
—and  in  her  life  there  could  be  no  more  true  love. 
She  would  never  love  any  one  again  as  she  had  Arthur, 
tt  could  not  be,  she  was  sure  of  it.  He  was  too  fasci- 
lating,  too  wonderful.  Always,  always,  wherever  she 
"night  be,  whoever  she  might  marry,  he  would  be  com- 
ng  back,  intruding  between  her  and  any  possible  love, 
'eceiving  any  possible  kiss.  It  would  be  Arthur  she 
vould  be  loving  or  kissing.  She  dabbed  at  her  eyes 
vith  a  tiny  handkerchief,  turned  her  face  close  to  the 
vindow  and  stared  out,  and  then  as  the  environs  of 
-atonia  came  into  view,  wondered  (so  deep  is  ro- 
nance) :  What  if  Arthur  should  come  back  at  some 
ime — or  now!  Supposing  he  should  be  here  at  the 


160  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

station  now,  accidentally  or  on  purpose,  to  welcome 
her,  to  soothe  her  weary  heart.  He  had  met  her  here 
before.  How  she  would  fly  to  him,  lay  her  head  on 
his  shoulder,  forget  forever  that  Barton  ever  was,  that 
they  had  ever  separated  for  an  hour.  Oh,  Arthur! 
Arthur! 

But  no,  no;  here  was  Latonia — here  the  viaduct 
over  her  train,  the  long  business  street  and  the  cars 
marked  "Center"  and  "Langdon  Avenue"  running 
back  into  the  great  city.  A  few  blocks  away  in  tree- 
shaded  Bethune  Street,  duller  and  plainer  than  ever, 
was  her  parents'  cottage  and  the  routine  of  that  old 
life  which  was  now,  she  felt,  more  fully  fastened  upon 
her  than  ever  before — the  lawn-mowers,  the  lawns,  the 
front  porches  all  alike.  Now  would  come  the  going 
to  and  fro  of  Barton  to  business  as  her  father  and 
she  now  went  to  business,  her  keeping  house,  cooking, 
washing,  ironing,  sewing  for  Barton  as  her  mother  now 
did  these  things  for  her  father  and  herself.  And  she 
would  not  be  in  love  really,  as  she  wanted  to  be.  Oh, 
dreadful!  She  could  never  escape  it  really,  now  that 
she  could  endure  it  less,  scarcely  for  another  hour. 
And  yet  she  must,  must,  for  the  sake  of — for  the  sake 
of — she  closed  her  eyes  and  dreamed. 

She  walked  up  the  street  under  the  trees,  past  the 
houses  and  lawns  all  alike  to  her  own,  and  found  her 
father  on  their  veranda  reading  the  evening  paper. 
She  sighed  at  the  sight. 

"Back,  daughter?"  he  called  pleasantly. 

"Yes." 

"Your  mother  is  wondering  if  you  would  like  steak 
or  liver  for  dinner.  Better  tell  her." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter," 


THE  SECOND  CHOICE  161 

She  hurried  into  her  bedroom,  threw  down  her  hat 
and  gloves,  and  herself  on  the  bed  to  rest  silently,  and 
groaned  in  her  soul.  To  think  that  it  had  all  come 
to  this! — Never  to  see  him  any  more! — To  see  only 
Barton,  and  marry  him  and  live  in  such  a  street,  have 
four  or  five  children,  forget  all  her  youthful  compan 
ionships — and  all  to  save  her  face  before  her  parents, 
and  her  future.  Why  must  it  be?  Should  it  be, 
really?  She  choked  and  stifled.  After  a  little  time 
her  mother,  hearing  her  come  in,  came  to  the  door — 
thin,  practical,  affectionate,  conventional. 

"What's  wrong,  honey  ?  Aren't  you  feeling  well  to 
night?  Have  you  a  headache?  Let  me  feel." 

Her  thin  cool  fingers  crept  over  her  temples  and 
hair.  She  suggested  something  to  eat  or  a  headache 
powder  right  away. 

"I'm  all  right,  mother.  I'm  just  not  feeling  well 
now.  Don't  bother.  I'll  get  up  soon.  Please  don't." 

"Would  you  rather  have  liver  or  steak  to-night, 
dear?" 

"Oh,  anything — nothing — please  don't  bother — steak 
will  do — anything" — if  only  she  could  get  rid  of  her 
and  be  at  rest ! 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  and  shook  her  head  sym 
pathetically,  then  retreated  quietly,  saying  no  more. 
Lying  so,  she  thought  and  thought — grinding,  destroy 
ing  thoughts  about  the  beauty  of  the  past,  the  darkness 
of  the  future — until  able  to  endure  them  no  longer  she 
got  up  and,  looking  distractedly  out  of  the  window 
into  the  yard  and  the  house  next  door,  stared  at  her 
future  fixedly.  What  should  she  do?  What  should 
she  really  do?  There  was  Mrs.  Kessel  in  her  kitchen 
getting  her  dinner  as  usual,  just  as  her  own  mother 


162  THE  SECOND  CHOICE 

was  now,  and  Mr.  Kessel  out  on  the  front  porch  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  reading  the  evening  paper.  Beyond  was 
Mr.  Pollard  in  his  yard,  cutting  the  grass.  All  along 
Bethune  'Street  were  such  houses  and  such  people — 
simple,  commonplace  souls  all — clerks,  managers,  fair 
ly  successful  craftsmen,  like  her  father  and  Barton, 
excellent  in  their  way  but  not  like  Arthur  the  beloved, 
the  lost — and  here  was  she,  perforce,  or  by  decision 
of  necessity,  soon  to  be  one  of  them,  in  some  such 
street  as  this  no  doubt,  forever  and — .  For  the  mo 
ment  it  choked  and  stifled  her. 

She  decided  that  she  would  not.  No,  no,  no! 
There  must  be  some  other  way — many  ways.  She  did 
not  have  to  do  this  unless  she  really  wished  to — would 
not — only — .  Then  going  to  the  mirror  she  looked 
at  her  face  and  smoothed  her  hair. 

"But  what's  the  use?"  she  asked  of  herself  wearily 
and  resignedly  after  a  time.  "Why  should  I  cry? 
Why  shouldn't  I  marry  Barton  ?  I  don't  amount  to  • 
anything,  anyhow.  Arthur  wouldn't  have  me.  I 
wanted  him,  and  I  am  compelled  to  take  some 
one  else — or  no  one — what  difference  does  it  really 
make  who?  My  dreams  are  too  high,  that's  all.  I 
wanted  Arthur,  and  he  wouldn't  have  me.  I  don't 
want  Barton,  and  he  crawls  at  my  feet.  I'm  a  failure, 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

And  then,  turning  up  her  sleeves  and  removing  a 
fichu  which  stood  out  too  prominently  from  her  breast, 
she  went  into  the  kitchen  and,  looking  about  for  an 
apron,  observed : 

"Can't  I  help?  Where's  the  tablecloth?"  and  find 
ing  it  among  napkins  and  silverware  in  a  drawer  in 
the  adjoining  room,  proceeded  to  set  the  table. 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

'TpAKE  a  smoky  Western  city.  Call  it  Omaha  or 
A  Kansas  City  or  Denver,  only  let  the  Mississippi 
flow  past  it.  Put  in  it  two  rival  morning  papers — 
two,  and  only  two — the  Star  and  the  News,  the  staffs 
of  which  are  rather  keen  to  outwit  each  other.  On 
the  staff  of  the  News,  slightly  the  better  of  the  two 
newspapers,  put  Mr.  David  Kolinsky,  alias  (yes,  alias) 
David,  or  "Red"  Collins  (a  little  shift  of  nomencla 
ture  due  to  the  facts  that,  first :  he  was  a  South  Russian 
i  Jew  who  looked  exactly  like  a  red-headed  Irishman — 
!  that  is  a  peculiarity  of  South  Russian  Jews,  I  believe — 
and  secondly :  that  it  was  more  distingue,  as  it  were, 
to  be  Irish  in  Omaha  or  Denver  or  Kansas  City  than 
it  was  to  be  a  South  Russian  Jew).  Give  him  a  slith 
ery,  self-confident,  race-track  or  tout  manner.  Put  on 
him  "loud"  or  showy  clothes,  a  diamond  ring,  a  ruby 
pin  in  his  tie,  a  yellowish-green  Fedora  hat,  yellow 
shoes,  freckles,  a  sneering  contemptuous  "tough"  smile, 

i  and  you  have  Mr.  "Red"  Collins  as  Mr. 

But  wait. 

On  the  Star,  slightly  the  lesser  of  these  two  great 
dailies  that  matutinally  thrashed  the  city  to  a  foam  of 
interest,  place  Mr.  Augustus  Binns,  no  less,  young  (not 
over  twenty-two),  tall,  college-y,  rather  graceful  as 
young  college  men  go,  literary  of  course,  highly  am 
bitious,  with  gold  eye-glasses,  a  wrist  watch,  a  cane — 
in  short,  one  of  those  ambitious  young  gentlemen  of 

163 


1 64  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

this  rather  un-happy  go  un-lucky  scribbling  world  who 
has  distinct  ideals,  to  say  nothing  of  dreams,  as  to 
what  the  newspaper  and  literary  professions  combined 
should  bring  him,  and  who,  in  addition,  inherently  de 
spised  all  creatures  of  the  "Red"  Collins,  or  racetrack, 
gambler,  amateur  detective,  police  and  political,  type. 
Well  may  you  ask,  what  was  Mr.  Collins,  with 
his  peculiar  characteristics,  doing  on  a  paper  of  the 
importance  and  distinction  of  the  News.  A  long  story, 
my  dears.  Newspapers  are  peculiar  institutions. 

For  this  same  paper  not  long  since  had  harbored  the 
truly  elegant  presence  of  Mr.  Binns  himself,  and  so 
excellent  a  writer  and  news  gatherer  was  he  that  on 
more  than  one  occasion  he  had  been  set  to  revise  or 
rewrite  the  tales  which  Mr.  "Red"  Collins,  who  was 
then  but  tentatively  connected  with  the  paper  as  a 
"tipster,"  brought  in.  This  in  itself  was  a  crime 
against  art  and  literature,  as  Mr.  Binns  saw  it,  for, 
when  you  come  right  down  to  it,  and  in  the  strict 
meaning  of  the  word,  Mr.  Collins  was  not  a  writer 
at  all,  could  not  write,  in  fact,  could  only  "bring  in" 
his  stories,  and  most  interesting  ones  they  were,  near 
ly  all  of  them,  whereas  about  the  paper  at  all  times 
were  men  who  could — Mr.  Binns,  for  instance.  It  in 
sulted  if  not  outraged  Mr.  Binns's  sense  of  the  fitness 
of  things,  for  the  News  to  hire  such  a  person  and  let! 
him  flaunt  the  title  of  "reporter"  or  "representative/ 
for  he  admired  the  News  very  much  and  was  glad  to  I 
be  of  it.  But  Collins!  "Red"  Collins! 

The  latter  was  one  of  those  "hard  life,"  but  by  no 
means  hard  luck,  Jews  who  by  reason  of  indomitablej 
ambition  and   will  had   raised  himself  out  of  prac-'w 
tically  frightful  conditions.     He  had  never  even  seen| 

r 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  165 

I  bath-tub  until  he  was  fifteen  or  sixteen.  By  turns 
he  had  been  a  bootblack,  newsboy,  race-track  tout, 
stable  boy,  helper  around  a  saloon,  and  what  not.  Of 
late  years,  and  now,  because  he  was  reaching  a  true 
wisdom  (he  was  between  twenty-five  and  six),  he  had 
developed  a  sort  of  taste  for  gambling  as  well  as  poli 
tics  of  a  low  order,  and  was  in  addition  a  police  hanger- 
on.  He  was  really  a  sort  of  pariah  in  his  way,  only 
the  sporting  and  political  editors  found  him  useful. 
They  tolerated  him,  and  paid  him  well  for  his  tips 
because,  forsooth,  his  tips  were  always  good. 

Bats  ford,  the  capable  city  editor  of  the  News,  a 
round,  forceful,  gross  person  who  was  more  allied 
to  Collins  than  to  Binns  in  spirit,  although  he  was 
like  neither,  was  Binns's  first  superior  in  the  newspaper 
world.  He  did  not  like  Binns  because,  for  one  thing, 
of  his  wrist  watch,  secondly,  his  large  gold  glasses — 
much  larger  than  they  need  have  been — and  thirdly, 
because  of  his  cane,  which  he  carried  with  consider 
able  of  an  air.  The  truth  is,  Binns  was  Eastern  and 
the  city  editor  was  Western,  and  besides,  Binns  had 
been  more  or  less  thrust  upon  him  by  his  managing 
editor  as  a  favor  to  some  one  else.  But  Binns  could 
write,  never  doubt  it,  and  proved  it.  He  was  a  vigor 
ous  reporter  with  a  fine  feeling  for  words  and,  above 
all,  a  power  to  visualize  and  emotionalize  whatever  he 
saw,  a  thing  which  was  of  the  utmost  importance  in 
this  rather  loose  Western  emotional  atmosphere.  He 
could  handle  any  story  which  came  to  him  with  ease 
and  distinction,  and  seemed  usually  to  get  all  or  nearly 
all  the  facts. 

On  the  other  hand,  Collins,  for  all  his  garishness, 
and  one  might  almost  say,  brutality  of  spirit,  was  what 


i66  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

Batsford  would  have  called  a  practical  man.  He  knew 
life.  He  was  by  no  means  as  artistic  as  Binns,  but 
still —  Batsford  liked  to  know  what  was  going  on 
politically  and  criminally,  and  Collins  could  always  tell 
him,  whereas  Binns  never  could.  Also,  by  making 
Binns  rewrite  Collins's  stories,  he  knew  he  could  of 
fend  him  horribly.  The  two  were  like  oil  and  water, 
Mussulman  and  Christian. 

When  Batsford  first  told  Collins  to  relate  the  facts 
of  a  certain  tale  to  Binns  and  let  him  work  it  out,  the 
former  strolled  over  to  the  collegian,  his  lip  curled  up 
at  one  corner,  his  eye  cynically  fixed  on  him,  and  said, 
"The  Chief  says  to  give  youse  this  dope  and  let  youse 
work  it  out." 

Youse! 

Oh,  for  a  large,  bright  broad  ax! 

Binns,  however,  always  your  stickler  for  duty  and 
order,  bent  on  him  an  equally  cynical  and  yet  enigmatic 
eye,  hitched  up  his  trousers  slightly,  adjusted  his  wrist 
watch  and  glasses,  and  began  to  take  down  the  details 
of  the  story,  worming  them  out  of  his  rival  with  a 
delicacy  and  savoir  faire  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

Not  long  after,  however,  it  was  brought  to  the  horri 
fied  ears  of  Mr.  Binns  that  Mr.  Collins  had  said  he 
was  a  "stiff"  and  a  "cheap  ink-slinger,"  a  la-de-da  no 
less,  that  writers,  one  and  all,  college  and  otherwise, 
didn't  count  for  much,  anyhow,  that  they  were  all 
starving  to  death,  and  that  they  "grew  on  trees" — a 
phrase  which  particularly  enraged  Mr.  Binns,  for  he 
interpreted  it  to  mean  that  they  were  as  numerous  as 
the  sands  of  the  sea,  as  plentiful  as  mud. 

By  Allah !  That  such  dogs  should  be  allowed  to  take 
the  beards  of  great  writers  into  their  hands  thus!  i 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  167 

Nevertheless  and  in  spite  of  all  this,  the  fortunes  of 
Mr.  Collins  went  forward  apace,  and  that  chiefly,  as 
Mr.  Binns  frequently  groaned,  at  his  expense.  Col 
lins  would  come  in,  and  after  a  long  series  of  "I  sez  to 
him-s"  and  "He  sez  to  me-s,"  which  Mr.  Binns  (per 
the  orders  of  Mr.  Batsford)  translated  into  the  King's 
best  Britannica,  he  having  in  the  meanwhile  to  neg 
lect  some  excellent  tale  of  his  own,  would  go  forth 
again,  free  to  point  the  next  day  to  a  column  or  col- 
umn-and-a-half  or  a  half -column  story,  and  declare 
proudly,  "My  story." 

Think  of  it !    That  swine ! 

There  is  an  end  to  all  things,  however,  even  life 
and  crime.  In  due  time,  as  per  a  series  of  accidents 
and  the  groundless  ill-will  of  Mr.  Batsford,  Mr.  Binns 
was  perforce,  in  self-respect,  compelled  to  transfer  his 
energies  to  the  Star,  a  paper  he  had  previously  con 
temned  as  being  not  so  good,  but  where  he  was  now 
made  very  welcome  because  of  his  ability.  Then,  to 
his  astonishment  and  disgust,  one  day  while  covering 
a  police  station  known  as  the  South  Ninth,  from  which 
emanated  many  amazing  police  tales,  whom  should 
he  encounter  but  "Red"  Collins,  no  less,  now  a  full- 
fledged  reporter  on  the  News,  if  you  please,  and  "doing 
police."  He  had  a  grand  and  even  contemptuous  man 
ner,  barely  deigning  to  notice  Binns.  Binns  raged. 

But  he  noticed  at  once  that  Collins  was  far  more 
en  rapport  with  the  various  sergeants  and  the  captain, 
as  well  as  all  that  was  going  on  in  this  station,  than 
ever  he  had  dreamed  of  being.  It  was  "Hello,  Red," 
here  and  "Hi,  sport,"  there,  while  Collins  replied  with 
various  "Caps"  and  "Charlies."  He  gave  himself  all 
the  airs  of  a  newspaper  man  proper,  swaggering  about 


i68  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

and  talking  of  this,  that,  and  the  other  story  which  he 
had  written,  some  of  them  having  been  done  by  Binns 
himself.  And  what  was  more,  Collins  was  soon  clos 
eted  intimately  with  the  captain  in  his  room,  strolling 
in  and  out  of  that  sanctum  as  if  it  were  his  private 
demesne,  and  somehow  giving  Binns  the  impression 
of  being  in  touch  with  realms  and  deeds  of  which  he 
had  never  heard,  and  never  would.  It  made  Binns 
doubly  apprehensive  lest  in  these  secret  intimacies 
tales  and  mysteries  should  be  unfolded  which  should 
have  their  first  light  in  the  pages  of  the  News,  and  so 
leave  him  to  be  laughed  at  as  one  who  could  not  get  the 
news.  In  consequence,  he  watched  the  News  more 
closely  than  ever  for  any  evidence  of  such  treachery 
on  the  part  of  the  police,  while  at  the  same  time  he  re 
doubled  his  interest  in  any  such  items  as  came  to  his 
attention.  By  reason  of  this,  as  well  as  by  his  greater 
skill  in  writing  and  his  undeniable  imagination,  on 
more  than  one  occasion  he  gave  Mr.  Collins  a  good 
drubbing,  chancing  to  make  good  stories  out  of  things 
which  Mr.  Collins  had  evidently  dismissed  as  worth 
less.  Au  contraire,  now  and  then  a  case  appeared  in 
the  columns  of  the  News  with  details  which  he  had 
not  been  able  to  obtain,  and  concerning  which  the 
police  had  insisted  that  they  knew  nothing.  It  was 
thus  that  Mr.  Collins  secured  his  revenge — and  very 
good  revenge  too,  it  was  at  times. 

But  Mr.  Binns  managed  to  hold  his  own,  as,  for 
instance,  late  one  August  afternoon  when  a  negro  girl 
in  one  of  those  crowded  alleys  which  made  up  an 

interesting  and  even  amazing  portion  of  O was 

cut  almost  to  shreds  by  an  ex-lover  who,  following  her 
from  river-city  to  river-city  and  town  to  town,  had 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  169 

finally  come  up  with  her  here  and  had  taken  his  re 
venge. 

It  was  a  glistering  tale  this.    It  appeared  (but  only 
after  the  greatest  industry  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Binns) 

that  some  seven  or  eight  months  before  [the  O 

papers  curiously  were  always  interested  in  a  tale  of 
this  kind]  this  same  girl  and  the  negro  who  had  cut 
her  had  been  living  together  as  man  and  wife  in 
Cairo,  Illinois,  and  that  later  the  lover  (a  coal  passer 
or  stevedore,  working  now  on  one  boat  and  now  on 
another  plying  the  Mississippi  between  New  Or 
leans  and  O ),  who  was  plainly  wildly  fond  of  her, 

became  suspicious  and  finally  satisfying  himself  that 
his  mistress,  who  was  a  real  beauty  after  her  kind, 
was  faithless  to  him,  set  a  trap  to  catch  her.  Return 
ing  suddenly  one  day  when  she  imagined  him  to  be 
away  for  a  week  or  two  of  labor,  and  bursting  in  upon 
her,  he  found  her  with  another  man.  Death  would 
have  been  her  portion  as  well  as  that  of  her  lover 
had  it  not  been  for  the  interference  of  friends,  which 
had  permitted  the  pair  to  escape. 

Lacerated  by  the  double  offenses  of  betrayal  and 
desertion,  he  now  set  out  to  follow  her,  as  the  cutting 
on  this  occasion  proved.  Returning  to  his  task  as 
stevedore  and  working  his  way  thus  from  one  river- 
city  to  another,  he  arrived  by  turns  in  Memphis,  Vicks- 
burg,  Natchez  and  New  Orleans,  in  each  case  making 
it  a  point  to  disguise  himself  as  a  peddler  selling  trink 
ets  and  charms,  and  in  this  capacity  walking  the 
crowded  negro  sections  of  all  these  cities  calling  his 
wares.  Ambling  up  one  of  these  stuffy,  stifling  alleys, 

finally,  in  O which  bordered  on  this  same  police 

station  and  where  so  many  negroes  lived,  he  encoun- 


170  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

tered  this  late  August  afternoon  his  quondam  but  now 
faithless  love.  In  answer  to  his  cry  of  "Rings!  Pins! 
Buckles!  Trinkets!"  his  false  love,  apparently  not 
recognizing  his  voice,  put  her  head  out  of  a  doorway. 
On  the  instant  the  damage  was  done.  Dropping  his 
tray,  he  was  upon  her  in  a  flash  with  his  razor,  cris- 
crossing  and  slashing  her  until  she  was  marred  be 
yond  recognition.  With  fiendish  cruelty  he  cut  her 
cheeks,  lips,  arms,  legs,  back,  and  sides,  so  much  so 
that  when  Binns  arrived  at  the  City  Hospital  where 
she  had  been  taken,  he  found  her  unconscious  and 
her  life  despaired  of.  On  the  other  hand,  the  lover 
had  made  good  his  escape,  as  had  her  paramour. 

Curiously,  this  story  captured  the  fancy  of  Mr.  Binns 
as  it  did  that  of  his  city  editor  later,  completely.  It 
was  such  a  thing  as  he  could  do,  and  do  well.  With 
almost  deft  literary  art  he  turned  it  into  a  rather 
striking  black  tragedy.  Into  it,  after  convincing  his 
rather  fussy  city  editor  that  it  was  worth  the  telling, 
he  had  crowded  a  bit  of  the  flavor  of  the  hot  water 
fronts  of  Cairo,  Memphis,  Natchez,  and  New  Or 
leans,  the  sing-song  sleepiness  of  the  stevedores  at 
their  lazy  labors,  the  idle,  dreamy  character  of  the 
slow-moving  boats,  this  rickety  alley,  with  its  semi- 
barbaric  curtain-hung  shacks  and  its  swarming,  idle, 
crooning,  shuffling  negro  life.  Even  an  old  negro 
refrain  appropriate  to  a  trinket  peddler,  and  the  low, 
bold  negro  life  two  such  truants  might  enjoy,  were 
pictured.  An  old  negro  mammy  with  a  yellow-dotted 
kerchief  over  her  head  who  kept  talking  of  "disha 
Gawge"  and  "disha  Sam"  and  "disha  Marquatta"  (the 
girl),  had  moved  him  to  a  poetic  frenzy.  Naturally 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  171 

it  made  a  colorful  tale,  and  his  city  editor  felt  called 
upon  to  compliment  him  on  it. 

But  in  the  News,  owing  possibly  to  Collins' s  inabil 
ity  to  grasp  the  full  significance,  the  romance,  of  such 
a  story  as  this,  it  received  but  a  scant  stick — a  low 
dive  cutting  affray.  His  was  not  the  type  of  mind  that 
could  see  the  color  here,  but  once  seen  he  could  real 
ize  wherein  he  had  been  beaten,  and  it  infuriated  him. 

"You  think  you're  a  helluva  feller,  dontcha?"  he 
snarled  the  next  day  on  sight,  his  lip  a-curl  with  scorn 
and  rage.  "You  think  you've  pulled  off  sompin  swell. 
Say,  I've  been  up  against  you  wordy  boys  before,  and 
I  can  wrork  all  around  you.  All  you  guys  can  do  is 
get  a  few  facts  and  then  pad  'em  up.  You  never  get 
the  real  stuff,  never,"  and  he  even  snapped  his  fingers 
under  the  nose  of  the  surprised  Mr.  Binns.  "Wait'll 
we  get  a  real  case  some  time,  you  and  me,  and  then 
I'll  show  you  sompin.  Wait  and  see." 

"My  good  fellow,"  Mr.  Binns  was  about  to  begin, 
but  the  cold,  hard,  revengeful  glare  in  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Collins  quite  took  his  breath  away.  Then  and  there 
Mr.  Collins  put  a  strange  haunting  fear  of  himself 
into  Mr.  Binns's  mind.  There  was  something  so  sav 
age  about  him,  so  like  that  of  an  angry  hornet  or 
snake  that  it  left  him  all  but  speechless.  "Is  that  so?" 
he  managed  to  say  after  a  time.  "You  think  you 
will,  do  you?  That's  easy  enough  to  say,  now  that 
you're  beaten,  but  I  guess  I'll  be  right  there  when  the 
time  comes." 

"Aw,  go  to  hell !"  growled  Collins  savagely,  and  he 
walked  off,  leaving  Mr.  Binns  smiling  pleasantly,  al 
beit  vacantly,  and  at  the  same  time  wondering  just 


172  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

what  it  was  Mr.  Collins  was  going  to  do  to  him,  and  I 
when. 

The  sequel  to  this  was  somewhat  more  interesting. 

As  Mr.  Binns  came  in  one  morning  fresh  from  his- 
bath  and  breakfast,  his  new  city  editor  called  him  into 
his  office.  Mr.  Waxby,  in  contrast  with  Mr.  Bats- 
ford,  was  a  small,  waspish,  and  yet  affable  and  capable 
man  whom  Binns  could  not  say  he  admired  as  a  man] 
or  a  gentleman,  but  who,  he  was  sure,  was  a  much; 
better  city  editor  than  Batsford,  and  who  appreciated! 
him,  Binns,  as  Batsford  never  had,  i.e.,  at  his  true 
worth.  Batsford  had  annoyed  him  with  such  a  dog\ 
as  Collins,  whereas  Waxby  had  almost  coddled  him. 
And  what  a  nose  for  news! 

Mr.  Waxby  eyed  him  rather  solemnly  and  enigmat 
ically  on  this  occasion,  and  then  observed:  "Do  you 
remember,  Binns,  that  big  M.P.  train  robbery  that  I 
took  place  out  here  near  Dolesville  about  six  months 
ago?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  do  you  remember  that  the  Governor  of  this 
state  and  his  military  staff,  all  in  uniform,  as  well  as 
a  half  dozen  other  big-wigs,  were  on  board,  and  that1 
they  all  reported  that  there  had  been  seven  lusty  ban 
dits,  all  heavily  armed,  some  of  whom  went  through 
the  train  and  robbed  the  passengers  while  others  com 
pelled  the  engineer  and  fireman  to  get  down,  uncouple 
the  engine,  and  then  blow  open  the  express  car  door 
and  safe  for  them  and  carry  out  the  money,  about  ;| 
twenty  or  thirty  thousand  dollars  all  told?" 

Binns  remembered  it  well.  He  had  been  on  the  News 
at  the  time,  and  the  full-page  spread  had  attracted 
his  keenest  attention.  It  was  illustrative,  as  he? 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  173 

thought,  of  the  character  of  this  region — raw  and  still 
daring.  It  smacked  so  much  of  the  lawlessness  of  the 
forties,  when  pack-train  and  stage-coach  robberies  were 
the  rule  and  not  the  exception.  It  had  caused  his 
hair  to  tingle  at  the  roots  at  times  so  real  was  it. 
Never  had  he  been  so  close,  as  it  were,  to  anything  so 
dramatic. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  remember  it  very  well,"  he  replied. 
"And  do  you  remember  how  the  newspapers  laughed 
over  the  fact  that  the  Governor  and  his  military  staff 
!  had  crawled  into  their  berths  and  didn't  come  out  again 
until  the  train  had  started?'* 
"Yes,  sir." 

"Well  now,  Binns,  just  read  this,"  and  here  Mr. 
^  Waxby  handed  him  a  telegram,  the  while  his  eyes 
I  gleamed  with  a  keen  humorous  light,  and  Mr.  Binns 
I  read : 

"Medicine  Flats,  M.  K. 

"Lem  Rollins  arrested  here  to-day  confesses  to  single- 
|  handed  robbery  of  M.  P.  express  west  of  Dolesville  Feb- 
|  ruary  2d  last.  Money  recovered.  Rollins  being  broughi 

|to  O via  C.  T.  &  A.  this  p.   m.     Should  arrive 

six-thirty." 

"Apparently,"  cackled  Mr.  Waxby,  "there  was  noth 
ing  to  that  seven-bandit  story  at  all,  Binns.  There 
I  weren't  any  seven  robbers,  but  just  one,  and  they've 
caught  him,  and  he's  confessed,"  and  here  he  burst 
into  more  laughter. 

"No,  Binns,"  went  on  Waxby,  "if  this  is  really 
true,  it  is  a  wonderful  story.  You  don't  often  find  one 
man  holding  up  a  whole  train  anywhere  and  getting 
away  with  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  dollars.  It's 
amazing.  I've  decided  that  we  won't  wait  for  him  to 


174  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

arrive,  but  that  you're  to  go  out  and  meet  him.  Ac 
cording  to  this  time-table  you  can  take  a  local  thati 
leaves  here  at  two-fifteen  and  get  to  Pacific  fifteen 
minutes  ahead  of  the  express  on  which  he  is  coming  in, 
and  you've  just  about  time  to  make  it.  That  will  give 
you  all  of  an  hour  and  a  half  in  which  to  interview 
him.  It's  just  possible  that  the  News  and  the  other 
papers  won't  get  wind  of  this  in  time  to  send  a  man 
Think  of  the  opportunity  it  gives  you  to  study  him 
No  seven  robbers,  remember,  but  just  one!  And  the 
Governor  and  his  whole  staff  on  board!  Make  him 
tell  what  he  thinks  of  the  Governor  and  his  staff. 
Make  him  talk.  Ha !  ha !  You'll  have  him  all  to  your 
self.  Think  of  that!  And  they  crawled  into  their 
berths !  Ha !  ha !  Gee  whiz,  you've  got  the  chance  of 
a  lifetime!" 

Mr.  Binns  stared  at  the  telegram.  He  recalled  the 
detailed  descriptions  of  the  actions  of  the  seven  rob 
bers,  how  some  of  them  had  prowled  up  and  down 
outside  the  train,  while  others  went  through  it  rifling, 
the  passengers,  and  still  others,  forward,  overawed  the' 
engineer  and  fireman,  broke  open  and  robbed  the  ex 
press  car  safe  in  the  face  of  an  armed  messenger  as 
well  as  mailman  and  trainmen,  and  how  they  had 
then  decamped  into  the  dark.  How  could  one  man 
have  done  it?  It  couldn't  be  true! 

Nevertheless  he  arose,  duly  impressed.  It  would 
be  no  easy  task  to  get  just  the  right  touch,  but  he  felt 
that  he  might.  If  only  the  train  weren't  over-rum 
with  other  reporters !  He  stuffed  some  notepaper  intc 
his  pocket  and  bustled  down  to  the  Union  Station — ii 
Mr.  Binns  could  be  said  to  bustle.  Here  he  encoun 
tered  his  first  hitch. 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  175 

On  inquiring  for  a  ticket  to  Pacific,  the  slightly  dis 
turbing  response  of  "Which  road?"  was  made. 

"Are  there  two?"  asked  Mr.  Binns. 

"Yes— M.P.  and  C.T.&A." 

"They  both  go  to  Pacific,  do  they?" 

"Yes." 

"Which  train  leaves  first?" 

"C.T.&A.    It's  waiting  now." 

Mr.    Binns  hesitated,   but  there  was  no   time  to 
lose.    It  didn't  make  any  difference,  so  long  as  he  con 
nected  with  the  incoming  express,  as  the  time-table 
showed  that  this  did.     He  paid  for  his  ticket  and  got 
aboard,  but  now  an  irritating  thought  came  to  him. 
'Supposing  other  reporters  from  either  the  News  or 
?one  of  the  three  afternoon  papers  were  aboard,  espe 
cially  the  News!     If  there  were  not  he  would  have 
jthis  fine  task  all  to  himself,  and  what  a  beat!     But 
if  there  were  others?     He  walked   forward  to  the 
I  smoker,  which  was  the  next  car  in  front,  and  there, 
ijto  his  intense  disgust  and  nervous  dissatisfaction,  he 
spied,  of  all  people,  the  one  man  he  would  least  have 
j]  expected  to  find  on  an  assignment  of  this  kind,  the  one 
:.<man  he  least  wanted  to  see — Mr.  Collins,  no  less,  red- 
i headed,  serene,  determined,  a  cigar  between  his  teeth, 
j|  crouched  low  in  his  seat  smoking  and  reading  a  paper 
las  calmly  as  though  he  were  not  bent  upon  the  most 
important  task  of  the  year. 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Binns  irritably  and  even 
bitterly. 

I     He  returned  to  his  seat  nervous  and  ill  composed,  all 

the  more  so  because  he  now  recalled  Collins' s  veno- 

,  mous  threat,  "Wait'll  we  get  a  real  case  some  time, 

you  and  me."     The  low  creature!     Why,  he  couldn't 


x;6  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

even  write  a  decent  sentence.  Why  should  he  fear 
him  so?  But  just  the  same  he  did  fear  him — why, 
he  could  scarcely  say.  Collins  was  so  raw,  savage, 
brutal,  in  his  mood  and  plans. 

But 'why,  in  heaven's  name,  he  now  asked  himself 
as  he  meditated  in  his  seat  as  to  ways  and  means, 
should  a  man  like  Batsford  send  a  man  like  Collins, 
who  couldn't  even  write,  to  interpret  a  story  and  a 
character  of  this  kind?  How  could  he  hope  to  dig 
out  the  odd  psychology  of  this  very  queer  case? 
Plainly  he  was  too  crude,  too  unintellectual  to  get  it 
straight.  Nevertheless,  here  he  was,  and  now,  plainly, 
he  would  have  this  awful  creature  to  contend  with. 
And  Collins  was  so  bitter  toward  him.  He  would 
leave  no  trick  unturned  to  beat  him!  These  country 
detectives  and  sheriff  and  railroad  men,  whoever  they 
were  or  wherever  they  came  from,  would  be  sure,  on 
the  instant,  to  make  friends  with  Collins,  as  they  al 
ways  did,  and  do  their  best  to  serve  him.  They 
seemed  to  like  that  sort  of  man,  worse  luck.  They 
might  even,  at  Collins's  instigation,  refuse  to  let  him 
interview  the  bandit  at  all!  If  so,  then  what?  But 
Collins  would  get  something  somehow,  you  might  be 
sure,  secret  details  which  they  might  not  relate  to  him. 
It  made  him  nervous.  Even  if  he  got  a  chance  he 
would  have  to  interview  this  wonderful  bandit  in  front 
of  this  awful  creature,  this  one  man  whom  he  most 
despised,  and  who  would  deprive  him  of  most  of  the' 
benefit  of  all  his  questions  by  writing  as  though  he 
had  thought  of  and  asked  all  of  them  himself.  Think 
of  it! 

The  dreary  local  sped  on,  and  as  it  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Pacific,  Binns  became  more  and  more  ner- 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  177 

ous.    For  him  the  whole  charm  of  this  beautiful  Sep- 
smber  landscape  through  which  he  was  speeding  now 
as  all  spoiled.     When  the  train  finally  drew  up  at 
'acific  he  jumped  down,  all  alive  with  the  determina- 
on  not  to  be  outdone  in  any  way,  and  yet  nervous  and 
worried  to  a  degree.     Let  Collins  do  his  worst,  he 
lought.      He   would    show  him.      Still —  just  then 
e  saw  the  latter  jumping  down.     At  the  same  time, 
IZollins  spied  him,  and  on  the  instant  his  face  clouded 
!>ver.     He  seemed  fairly  to  bristle  with  an  angry  ani- 
Snal  rage,  and  he  glared  as  though  he  would  like  to 
all  Binns,  at  the  same  time  looking  around  to  see  who 
;lse  might  get  off.    "My  enemy!"  was  written  all  over 
lim.     Seeing  no  one,  he  ran  up  to  the  station-agent 
md  apparently  asked  when  the  train  from  the  West 
Aras  due.     Binns  decided  at  once  not  to  trail,  but  in 
stead  sought  information  from  his  own  conductor,  who 
assured  him  that  the  East-bound  express  would  prob- 
kbly  be  on  time  five  minutes  later,  and  would  cer 
tainly  stop  here. 

"We  take  the  siding  here/'  he  said.  "You'll  hear 
fhe  whistle  in  a  few  minutes." 

"It  always  stops  here,  does  it?"  asked  Binns  anx 
iously. 
"Always." 

As  they  talked,  Collins  came  back  to  the  platform's 
edge  and  stood  looking  up  the  track.  At  the  same 
time  this  train  pulled  out,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the 
whistle  of  the  express  was  heard.  Now  for  a  real 
contest,  thought  Binns.  Somewhere  in  one  of  those 
cars  would  be  this  astounding  bandit  surrounded  by 
detectives,  and  his  duty,  in  spite  of  the  indignity  of 
it,  would  be  to  clamber  aboard  and  get  there  first,  ex- 


178  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

plain  who  he  was,  ingratiate  himself  into  the  good 
graces  of  the  captors  and  the  prisoner,  and  begin  his 
questioning,  vanquishing  Collins  as  best  he  might — 
perhaps  by  the  ease  with  which  he  should  take  charge. 
In  a  few  moments  the  express  was  rolling  into  the 
station,  and  then  Binns  saw  his  enemy  leap  aboard 
and,  with  that  iron  effrontery  and  savageness  which 
always  irritated  Binns  so  much,  race  through  the  for 
ward  cars  to  find  the  prisoner.  Binns  was  about  to 
essay  the  rear  cars,  but  just  then  the  conductor,  a 
portly,  genial-looking  soul,  stepped  down  beside  him. 

"Is  Lem  Rollins,  the  train  robber  they  are  bringing 
in  from  Bald  Knob,  on  here?"  he  inquired.  "I'm 
from  the  Star,  and  I've  been  sent  out  to  interview 
him." 

"You're  on  the  wrong  road,  brother,"  smiled  thei 
conductor.     "He's  not  on  this  train.     Those  detective- 
fellows  have  fooled  you  newspaper  men,  I'm  afraic 
They're  bringing  him  in  over  the  M.P.,  as  I  under 
stand  it.     They  took  him  across  from  Bald  Knob  t 
Wahaba  and  caught  the  train  there — but  I'll  tell  you, 
and  here  he  took  out  a  large  open-face  silver  watch  an 
consulted  it,  "you  might  be  able  to  catch  him  yet  if  yo 
run  for  it.     It's  only  across  the  field  there.     You  see 
that  little  yellow  station  over  there?    Well,  that's  th 
depot.     It's  due  now,  but  sometimes  it's  a  little  late 
You'll  have  to  run  for  it,  though.     You  haven't 
minute  to  spare." 

Binns  was  all  aquiver  on  the  instant.  Suppose,  ii 
spite  of  Collins's  zeal  and  savagery,  he  should  outwi 
him  yet  by  catching  this  other  train  while  he  wa 
searching  this  one !  All  the  gameness  of  his  youth  an 
profession  rose  up  in  him.  Without  stopping  to  thanl 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  179 

his  informer,  he  leaped  like  a  hare  along  the  little  path 
which  cut  diagonally  across  this  lone  field  and  which 
.was  evidently  well  worn  by  human  feet.  As  he  ran 
he  wondered  whether  the  genial  conductor  could  pos 
sibly  have  lied  to  him  to  throw  him  off  the  track,  and 
also  if  his  enemy,  seeing  him  running,  had  discovered 
his  error  by  now  and  was  following,  granting  that 
the  conductor  had  told  him  the  truth.  He  looked 
back  occasionally,  taking  off  his  coat  and  glasses  as  he 
ran,  and  even  throwing  away  his  cane.  Apparently 
Collins  was  still  searching  the  other  train.  And  now 
Binns  at  the  same  time,  looking  eagerly  forward  to 
ward  the  other  station,  saw  a  semaphore  arm  which 
stood  at  right  angles  to  the  station  lower  itself  for  a 
clear  track  for  some  train.  At  the  same  time  he  also 
spied  a  mail-bag  hanging  out  on  a  take-post  arm,  indi 
cating  that  whatever  this  train  was  and  whichever 
way  it  might  be  going,  it  was  not  going  to  stop  here. 
He  turned,  still  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  not  searching  the  other  train.  Suppos 
ing  the  conductor  had  deliberately  fooled  him!  Sup 
pose  Collins  had  made  some  preliminary  arrangements 
of  which  he  knew  nothing?  Suppose  he  had!  Sup 
posing  the  burglar  were  really  on  there,  and  even  now 
Collins  was  busy  with  the  opening  questions  of  his 
interview,  while  he  was  here,  behind !  Oh  Lord,  what 
a  beat !  And  he  would  have  no  reasonable  explanation 
to  offer  except  that  he  had  been  outwitted.  What 
would  happen  to  him?  He  slowed  up  in  his  running, 
chill  beads  of  sweat  bursting  out  on  his  face  as  he  did 
so,  but  then,  looking  backward,  he  saw  the  train  begin 
to  move  and  from  it,  as  if  shot  out  of  a  gun,  the  sig 
nificant  form  of  Collins  leap  down  and  begin  to  run 


i8o  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

along  this  same  path.  Then,  by  George,  the  robber 
was  not  on  it,  after  all !  The  conductor  had  told  him 
the  truth!  Ha!  Collins  would  now  attempt  to  make 
this  other  train.  He  had  been  told  that  the  bandit 
was  coming  in  on  this.  Binns  could  see  him  speeding 
along  the  path  at  top  speed,  his  hat  off,  his  hands  wav-l 
ing  nervously  about.  But  by  now  Binns  had  reached 
the  station  a  good  three  minutes  ahead  of  his  rival. 

Desperately  he  ran  into  it,  a  tiny  thing,  sticking  his 
eager  perspiring  face  in  at  the  open  office  window,  and 
calling  to  the  stout,  truculent  little  occupant  of  it : 

"When  is  the  East-bound  M.P.  express  due  here?" 

"Now,"  replied  the  agent  surlily. 

"Does  it  stop?" 

"No,  it  don't  stop." 

"Can  it  be  stopped?" 

"No,  it  cannot!" 

"You  mean  to  say  you  have  no  right  to  stop  it?' 

"I  mean  I  won't  stop  it." 

As  they  spoke  there  came  the  ominous  shriek  of  th< 
express's  whistle  tearing  on  toward  them.  For  the 
moment  he  was  almost  willing  that  Collins  should  joir 
him  if  only  he  could  make  the  train  and  gain  this  in 
terview.  He  must  have  it.  Waxby  expected  him  tc 
get  it.  Think  of  what  a  beat  he  would  have  if  h( 
won — what  Waxby  would  think  if  he  failed ! 

"Would  five  dollars  stop  it?"  he  asked  desperately 
diving  into  his  pocket. 

"No." 

"Will  ten?" 

"It  might,"  the  agent  replied  crustily,  and  rose 
his   feet. 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  181 

"Stop  it,"  urged  Binns  feverishly,  handing  over  the 

bill. 

The  agent  took  it,  and  grabbing  a  tablet  of  yellow 
>rder  blanks  which  lay  before  him,  scribbled  some- 
:hing  on  the  face  of  one  and  ran  outside,  holding  it  up 
at  arm's  length  as  he  did  so.  At  the  same  time  he 
called  to  Binns : 

"Run  on  down  the  track !  Run  after  it.  She  won't 
stop  here — she  can't.  She'll  go  a  thousand  feet  be 
fore  she  can  slow  up.  Get  on  down  there,  and  after 
you're  on  I'll  let  'er  go." 

He  waved  the  yellow  paper  desperately,  while  Binns, 
all  tense  with  excitement  and  desire,  began  running 
as  fast  as  he  could  in  the  direction  indicated.  Now, 
f  he  were  lucky,  he  would  make  it,  and  Collins  would 
>e  left  behind — think  of  it !  He  could  get  them  to  go 
ahead,  maybe,  before  Collins  could  get  aboard.  Oh, 
my!  As  he  ran  and  thought,  he  heard  the  grinding 
wheels  of  the  express  rushing  up  behind  him.  In  a 
hought,  as  it  were,  it  was  alongside  and  past,  its 
wheels  shrieking  and  emitting  sparks.  True  enough, 
t  was  stopping!  He  would  be  able  to  get  on!  Oh, 
jlory!  And  maybe  Collins  wouldn't  be  able  to! 
Wouldn't  that  be  wonderful?  It  was  far  ahead  of  him 
now,  but  almost  stock-still,  and  he  was  running  like 
mad.  As  he  ran  he  could  hear  the  final  gritty  screech 
of  the  wheels  against  the  brakes  as  the  train  came  to  a 
full  stop  farther  on,  and  then  coming  up  and  climbing 
aboard,  breathless  and  gasping  painfully,  he  looked 
back,  only  to  see  that  his  rival  had  taken  a  diagonal 
course  across  the  common,  and  was  now  not  more 
than  a  hundred  feet  behind.  He  would  make  the 
train  if  he  kept  this  up.  It  could  scarcely  be  started 


182  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

quickly  enough  to  leave  him  behind,  even  if  Binns  paid 
for  it.  Instead  of  setting  himself  to  the  stern  task  of 
keeping  Mr.  Collins  off  the  train,  however,  as  assur 
edly  Mr.  Collins  would  have  done — with  his  fists  or 
his  feet,  if  necessary,  or  his  money — Mr.  Binns  now 
hesitated,  uncertain  what  to  do.  On  the  rear  platform 
with  him  was  a  brakeman  newly  stepped  forth  and, 
coming  out  of  the  door,  the  conductor. 

"Let  her  go !"  he  cried  to  the  conductor.  "Let  her 
go!  It's  all  right!  Go  on!" 

"Don't  that  other  fellow  want  to  get  on?"  asked 
the  latter  curiously. 

"No,  no,  no!"  Binns  exclaimed  irritably  and  yet 
pleading.  "Don't  let  him  on !  He  hasn't  any  right  on 
here.  I  arranged  to  stop  this  train.  I'm  from  the 
Star.  I'll  pay  you  if  you  don't  let  him  on.  It's  the 
train  robber  I  want.  Go  ahead,"  but  even  as  he  spoke 
Mr.  Collins  came  up,  panting  and  wet,  but  with  a  leer 
of  triumph  and  joy  over  his  rival's  discomfiture  writ 
ten  all  over  his  face  as  he  pulled  himself  up  the  steps. 

"You  thought  you'd  leave  me  behind,  didn't  you?" 
he  sneered  as  he  pushed  his  way  upward.  "Well,  I 
fooled  you  this  time,  didn't  I  ?" 

Now  was  the  crucial  moment  of  Mr.  Binns's  career 
had  his  courage  been  equal  to  it,  but  it  was  not.  He 
had  the  opportunity  to  do  the  one  thing  which  might 
have  wrested  victory  from  defeat — that  is,  push  Mr. 
Collins  off  and  keep  him  off.  The  train  was  beginning 
to  move.  But  instead  of  employing  this  raw  force 
which  Mr.  Collins  would  assuredly  have  employed, 
he  hesitated  and  debated,  unable  in  his  super-refine 
ment  to  make  up  his  mind,  while  Mr.  Collins,  not  to  be 
daunted  or  parleyed  with,  dashed  into  the  car  in  search 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  183 

of  the  robber.  In  the  sudden  immensity  of  his  dis 
comfiture,  Binns  now  followed  him  with  scarcely  a 
thought  for  the  moment,  only  to  see  Collins  bustling 
up  to  the  bandit  in  the  third  car  ahead  who,  hand 
cuffed  to  a  country  sheriff  and  surrounded  by  several 
detectives,  was  staring  idly  at  the  passengers. 

"Gee,  sport,"  the  latter  was  saying  as  Mr.  Binns 
sat  down,  patting  the  burglar  familiarly  on  the  knee 
and  fixing  him  with  that  basilisk  gaze  of  his  which 
was  intended  to  soothe  and  flatter  the  victim,  "that  was 
a  great  trick  you  pulled  off.     The  paper'll  be  crazy 
I  to  find  out  how  you  did  it.     My  paper,  the  News, 
I  wants  a  whole  page  of  it.     It  wants  your  picture,  too. 
1  Say,  you  didn't  really  do  it  all  alone,  did  you?    Well, 
that's  what  I  call  swell  work,  eh,   Cap?"  and  now 
he  turned  his  ingratiating  leer  on  the  country  sheriff 
and  the  detectives.    In  a  moment  or  two  more  he  was 
telling  them  all  what  an  intimate  friend  he  was  of 

"Billy"  Desmond,  the  chief  of  detectives  of  O 

and  Mr.  So-and-So,  the  chief  of  police,  as  well  as 
various  other  dignitaries  of  that  world. 

Plainly,  admitted  Binns  to  himself,  he  was  beaten 
now,  as  much  so  as  this  burglar,  he  thought.  His 
great  opportunity  was  gone.  What  a  victory  this 
might  have  been,  and  now  look  at  it!  Disgruntled, 
he  sat  down  beside  his  enemy,  beginning  to  think 
what  to  ask,  the  while  the  latter,  preening  himself  in 
his  raw  way  on  his  success,  began  congratulating  the 
prisoner  on  his  great  feat. 

"The  dull  stuff!"  thought  Mr.  Binns.  "To  think 
that  I  should  have  to  contend  with  a  creature  like  this ! 
And  these  are  the  people  he  considers  something !  And 


1 84  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

he  wants  a  whole  page  for  the  News!  My  word! 
He'd  do  well  if  he  wrote  a  half-column  alone." 

Still,  to  his  intense  chagrin,  he  could  not  fail  to  see 
that  Mr.  Collins  was  making  excellent  headway,  not 
only  with  the  country  sheriff,  who  was  a  big  bland 
creature,  but  the  detectives  and  even  the  burglar  him 
self.  The  latter  was  a  most  unpromising  specimen 
for  so  unique  a  deed — short,  broad-shouldered,  heavy- 
limbed,  with  a  squarish,  inexpressive,  even  dull-looking 
face,  blue-gray  eyes,  dark  brown  hair,  big,  lumpy, 
rough  hands,  and  a  tanned  and  seamed  skin.  He  wore 
the  cheap,  nondescript  clothes  of  a  laborer,  a  blue 
"hickory"  shirt,  blackish-gray  trousers,  brownish- 
maroon  coat,  and  a  red  bandana  handkerchief  in  lieu 
of  a  collar.  On  his  head  was  a  small  round  brown 
hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes  after  the  manner  of  a 
cap.  He  had  the  still,  indifferent  expression  of  a  cap 
tive  bird,  and  when  Binns  finally  faced  him  and  sat 
down,  he  seemed  scarcely  to  notice  either  him  or  Col 
lins,  or  if  so  with  eyes  that  told  nothing.  Binns  often 
wondered  afterward  what  he  really  did  think.  At  the 
same  time  he  was  so  incensed  at  the  mere  presence  of 
Collins  that  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

The  latter  had  the  average  detective-politician-gam 
bler's  habit  of  simulating  an  intense  interest  and  an 
enthusiasm  which  he  did  not  feel,  his  face  wreathing 
itself  in  a  cheery  smile,  the  while  his  eyes  followed  one 
like  those  of  a  hawk,  attempting  all  the  while  to  dis 
cover  whether  his  assumed  enthusiasm  or  friendship 
was  being  accepted  at  its  face  value  or  not.  The  only 
time  Binns  seemed  to  obtain  the  least  grip  on  this 
situation,  or  to  impress  himself  on  the  minds  of  the 
detectives  and  prisoner,  was  when  it  came  to  those  finer 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  185 

shades  of  questioning  which  concerned  just  why,  for 
what  ulterior  reasons,  the  burglar  had  attempted  this 
deed  alone.  But  even  here,  Binns  noticed  that  his 
confrere  was  all  ears,  and  making  copious  notes. 

But  always,  to  Binns's  astonishment  and  chagrin, 
the  prisoner  as  well  as  his  captors  paid  more  atten 
tion  to  Collins  than  they  did  to  himself.  They  turned 
[to  him  as  to  a  lamp,  and  seemed  to  be  really  immensely 
jmore  impressed  with  him  than  with  himself,  although 
;;the  principal  lines  of  questioning  fell  to  him.  After 
a  time  he  became  so  dour  and  enraged  that  he  could 
'think  of  but  one  thing  that  would  really  have  satisfied 
I  him,  and  that  was  to  attack  Collins  physically  and 
1  give  him  a  good  beating. 

However,  by  degrees  and  between  them,  the  story 
was  finally  extracted,  and  a  fine  tale  it  made.  It  ap- 
!  peared  that  up  to  seven  or  eight  months  preceding  the 
robbery,  possibly  a  year,  Rollins  had  never  thought  of 
being  a  train  robber  but  had  been  only  a  freight  brake- 
|  man  or  yard-hand  on  this  same  road  at  one  of  its 
|  division  points.  Latterly  he  had  even  been  promoted 
to  be  a  sort  of  superior  switchman  and  assistant  freight 
handler  at  some  station  where  there  was  considerable 
work  of  this  kind.  Previous  to  his  railroad  work  he 
had  been  a  livery  stable  helper  in  the  town  where  he 
was  eventually  apprehended,  and  before  that  a  farm 
hand  somewhere  near  the  same  place.  About  a  year  be 
fore  the  crime,  owing  to  hard  times,  this  road  had  laid 
off  a  large  number  of  men,  including  Rollins,  and  re 
duced  the  wages  of  all  others  by  as  much  as  ten 
per  cent.  Naturally  a  great  deal  of  labor  discontent 
ensued,  and  strikes,  riots,  and  the  like  were  the  order 
of  the  day.  Again,  a  certain  number  of  train  robberies 


i86  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

which  were  charged  and  traced  to  discharged  and  dis 
satisfied  employees  now  followed.  The  methods  of 
successful  train  robbing  were  then  and  there  so  clever 
ly  set  forth  by  the  average  newspaper  that  nearly  any 
burglar  so  inclined  could  follow  them.  Among  other 
things,  while  working  as  a  freight  handler,  Rollins  had 
heard  of  the  many  money  shipments  made  by  express 
companies  in  their  express  cars,  their  large  amounts, 
the  manner  in  which  they  were  guarded,  and  so  on. 

The  road  for  which  he  worked  at  this  time,  the 
M.P.,  was,  as  he  now  learned,  a  very  popular  route 
for  money  shipments  both  East  and  West.  And  al 
though  express  messengers  (as  those  in  charge  of  the 
car  and  its  safe  were  called)  were  well  and  invari 
ably  armed  owing  to  the  many  train  robberies  which 
had  been  occurring  in  the  West  recently,  still  these 
assaults  had  not  been  without  success.  Indeed,  the 
deaths  of  various  firemen,  engineers,  messengers,  con 
ductors,  and  even  passengers,  and  the  fact  that  much 
money  had  recently  been  stolen  and  never  recovered, 
had  not  only  encouraged  the  growth  of  banditry  every 
where,  but  had  put  such  an  unreasoning  fear  into  most 
employees  connected  with  the  roads  that  but  few 
even  of  those  especially  picked  guards  ventured  to  give 
these  marauders  battle. 

But  just  the  same,  the  psychology  which  eventually 
resulted  in  this  amazing  single-handed  attempt  and  its 
success  was  not  so  much  that  Rollins  was  a  poor  and 
discharged  railroad  hand  unable  to  find  any  other 
form  of  employment,  although  that  was  a  part  of  it, 
or  that  he  was  an  amazingly  cold,  cruel  and  subtle 
soul,  which  he  was  not  by  any  means,  but  that  he  was 
really  largely  unconscious  of  the  tremendous  risks  he 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  187 

vas  taking.    He  was  just  mentally  "thick" — well  insu- 

ated,  as  it  were.    This  was  a  fact  which  Binns  had  to 

wing  out  and  which  Collins  noted.    He  had  never,  as  it 

low  developed,  figured  it  out  from  the  point  of  danger, 

>eing  more  or  less  lobster-like  in  his  nervous  organism, 

mt  solely  from  the  point  of  view  of  success.    In  sum, 

n  his  idleness,  having  wandered  back  to  his  native 

•egion  where  he  had  first  started  out  as  a  livery  hand, 

le  had  now  fallen  in  love  with  a  young  girl  there, 

md  then  realizing,  for  the  first  time  perhaps,  that  he 

vas  rather  hard  pressed  for  cash  and  unable  to  make 

icr  such  presents  as  he  desired,  he  had  begun  to  thintf 

Jiseriously  of  some  method  of  raising  money.     Even 

Jthis    had    not    resulted    in    anything    until    latterly, 

[another  ex-railroad  hand  who  had  been  laid  off  by 

Ithis  same  company  arrived  and  proposed,  in  connec- 

I'tion  with  a  third  man  whom  he  knew,  to  rob  a  train. 

;|At  this  time  Rollins  had  rejected  this  scheme  as  not 

^feasible,  not  wishing  to  connect  himself  with  others 

j|in  any  such  crime.     Later,  however,  his  own  condi- 

jtion  becoming  more  pressing,  he  had  begun  to  think 

jof  train  robbing  as  a  means  of  setting  himself  up  in 

(life,  only,  as  he  reasoned,  it  must  be  alone. 

Why  alone  ?  queried  Binns. 

That  was  the  point  all  were  so  anxious  to  discover 
— why  alone,  with  all  the  odds  against  him  ? 

Well,  he  couldn't  say  exactly.  He  had  just  "kind 
o'  sort  o'  thort,"  as  he  expressed  it,  that  he  might 
frighten  them  into  letting  him  alone!  Other  bandits 
(so  few  as  three  in  one  case  of  which  he  had  read) 
had  held  up  large  trains.  Why  not  one?  Revolver 
shots  fired  about  a  train  easily  frightened  all  passen- 
i  gers  as  well  as  all  trainmen,  so  the  other  robbers  had 


188  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

told  him,  and  anyhow  it  was  a  life  to  death  job  either 
way,  and  it  would  be  better  for  him,  he  thought,  if  he 
worked  it  out  alone  instead  of  with  others.  Often, 
he  said,  other  men  "squealed,"  or  they  had  girls  who 
told  on  them.  He  knew  that.  Binns  looked  at  him, 
intensely  interested  and  all  but  moved  by  the  sheer 
courage,  or  "gall,"  or  "grit,"  imbedded  somewhere 
in  this  stocky  frame. 

But  how  could  he  hope  to  overcome  the  engineer, 
fireman,  baggage  man,  express  messenger,  mailmen, 
conductor,  brakeman  and  passengers,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  Governor  and  his  staff?  How?  By  the  way, 
did  he  know  at  the  time  that  the  Governor  and  his 
staff  were  on  board  ?  No,  he  hadn't  known  that  until 
afterward,  and  as  for  the  others,  well,  he  just  thought 
he  could  overawe  them.  Collins' s  eyes  were  luminous 
as  Rollins  said  this,  his  face  radiant.  Far  more  than 
Binns,  he  seemed  to  understand  and  even  approve  of 
the  raw  force  of  all  this. 

The  manner  in  which  Rollins  came  to  fix  on  this 
particular  train  to  rob  was  also  told.  Every  Thurs 
day  and  Friday,  or  so  he  had  been  told  while  he  was 
assistant  freight  handler,  a  limited  which  ran  West 
at  midnight  past  Dolesville  carried  larger  shipments 
of  money  than  on  other  nights.  This  was  due  to 
week-end  exchanges  between  Eastern  and  Western 
banks,  although  he  did  not  know  that.  Having  de 
cided  on  the  train,  although  not  on  the  day,  he  had 
proceeded  by  degrees  to  secure  from  one  distant  small 
town  and  another,  and  at  different  times  so  as  to  avoid 
all  chance  of  detection,  first,  a  small  handbag  from 
which  he  had  scraped  all  evidence  of  the  maker's 
name;  six  or  seven  fused  sticks  of  giant  powder  such 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  189 

s  farmers  use  to  blow  up  stumps ;  two  revolvers  hold- 
ng  six  cartridges  each,  and  some  cartridges ;  and  cord 
nd  cloth,  out  of  which  he  proposed  to  make  bundles 
f  the  money  if  necessary.  Placing  all  of  these  in 
is  bag,  which  he  kept  always  beside  him,  he  next 
isited  Dolesville,  a  small  town  nearest  the  spot  which 
e  had  fixed  on  in  his  mind  as  the  place  for  his  crime, 
.nd  reconnoitering  it  and  its  possibilities,  finally  ar- 
anged  all  his  plans  to  a  nicety. 

Just  at  the  outskirts  of  this  hamlet,  as  he  now  told 
Binns  and  Collins,  which  had  been  selected  because  of 
rcs  proximity  to  a  lone  wood  and  marsh,  stood  a  large 
jvater-tank  at  which  this  express  as  well  as  nearly  all 
pther  trains  stopped  for  water.  Beyond  it,  about  five 
niles,  was  the  wood  with  its  marsh,  where  he  planned 
o  have  the  train  stopped.  The  express,  as  he  learned, 
vas  regularly  due  at  about  one  in  the  morning.  The 
learest  town  beyond  the  wood  was  all  of  five  miles 
way,  a  mere  hamlet  like  this  one. 

On  the  night  in  question,  between  eight  and  nine,  he 
Carried  the  bag,  minus  its  revolvers  and  sticks  of  giant 
[>owder,  which  were  now  on  his  person,  to  that  exact 
bpot  opposite  the  wood  where  he  wished  the  train  to 
btop,  and  left  it  there  beside  the  railroad  track.  He 
then  walked  back  the  five  miles  to  the  water-tank, 
where  he  concealed  himself  and  waited  for  the  train. 
When  it  stopped,  and  just  before  it  started  again,  he 
slipped  in  between  the  engine  tender  and  the  front 
baggage  car,  which  was  "blind"  at  both  ends.  The 
train  resumed  its  journey,  but  on  reaching  the  spot 
where  he  felt  sure  the  bag  should  be,  he  could  not 
make  it  out.  The  engine  headlight  did  not  seem  to 
reveal  it.  Fearing  to  lose  his  chance  and  realizing  that 


190  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

he  was  at  about  the  place  where  he  had  left  it,  he 
rose  up,  and  climbing  over  the  coal-box,  covered  the 
two  men  in  the  cab,  and  compelled  them  to  stop  the 
train,  dismount  and  uncouple  the  engine.  Then,  re 
volver  in  hand,  he  drove  them  before  him  to  the  ex 
press  car  door  where,  presenting  one  with  a  fused  stick! 
of  giant  powder,  he  forced  him  to  blow  open  the  door ; 
the  messenger  within,  still  refusing  to  open  it  although 
he  would  not  fire,  for  fear  of  killing  either  the  engineer 
or  fireman.  Both  engineer  and  fireman,  at  his  com 
mand,  then  entered  the  car  and  blew  open  the  money 
safe,  throwing  out  the  packages  of  bills  and  coin  at  his 
word,  the  while  Rollins,  realizing  the  danger  of  either 
trainmen  or  passengers  coming  forward,  had  been  fir 
ing  a  few  shots  backward  toward  the  rear  coaches  so  as' 
to  overawe  the  passengers,  and  at  the  same  time  kept; 
calling  to  purely  imaginary  companions  to  keep  watch 
there.  It  was  these  shots  and  calls  that  had  pre-- 
sumably  sent  the  Governor  and  his  staff  scurrying  to 
their  berths.  They  also  put  the  fear  of  death  into  the 
minds  of  the  engineer  and  fireman  and  messenger,  who 
imagined  that  he  had  many  confreres  on  the  other 
side  of  the  express  car  but  for  some  reason,  because 
he  was  the  leader,  no  doubt,  preferred  to  act  alone. 

"Don't  kill  anybody,  boys,  unless  you  have  to,"  is 
what  Rollins  said  he  called,  or  "That's  all  right,  Frank. 
Stay  over  there.  Watch  that  side.  I'll  take  care  of 
these."  Then  he  would  fire  a  few  more  shots,  and] 
so  all  were  deluded. 

Once  the  express  car  door  and  safe  had  been  blown! 
open  and  the  money  handed  out,  he  had  now  compelled 
the  engineer  and  fireman  to  come  down,  recouple  the 
engine,  and  pull  away.  Only  after  the  train  had  safely) 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  191 

iisappeared  in  the  distance  did  he  venture  to  gather 
ip  the  various  packages,  only  since  he  had  lost  his  bag 
md  had  no  light,  he  had  to  fumble  about  and  make 
i  bag  of  his  coat  for  them.  With  this  over  his  shoul- 
ler,  he  eventually  staggered  off  into  the  wood  and 
narsh,  concealing  it  under  muck  and  stones,  and  then 
naking  for  safety  himself. 

i  But,  as  it  turned  out,  two  slight  errors,  one  of  for- 
^etfulness  and  one  of  eyesight,  caused  him  to  finally 
pse  the  fruit  of  his  victory.  The  loss  of  the  bag,  in 
vhich  he  had  first  placed  and  then  forgotten  an  ini- 
iialed  handkerchief  belonging  to  his  love,  eventually 
Brought  about  his  capture.  It  is  true  that  he  had  gone 
pack  to  look  for  the  bag,  without,  however,  remem- 
!>ering  that  the  handkerchief  was  in  it,  but  fearing 
Capture  if  he  lingered  too  long,  had  made  off  after  a 
lime  without  it.  Later  a  posse  of  detectives  and  citi- 
tens  arriving  and  finding  the  bag  with  the  initialed 
kandkerchief  inside,  they  were  eventually  able  to  trace 
jiim.  For,  experts  meditating  on  the  crime,  decided 
pat  owing  to  the  hard  times  and  the  laying-off  of  em 
ployees,  some  of  the  latter  might  have  had  a  hand  in  it, 
knd  so,  in  due  time,  the  whereabouts  and  movements 
jf  each  and  every  one  of  them  was  gone  into,  resulting 
In  the  discovery  finally  that  this  particular  ex-helper 
lad  returned  rather  recently  to  his  semi-native  town 
and  had  there  been  going  with  a  certain  girl,  and  thai 
even  now  he  was  about  to  marry  her.  Also,  it  was  said 
that  he  was  possessed  of  unusual  means,  for  him. 
Next,  it  was  discovered  that  her  initials  corresponded 
to  those  on  the  handkerchief.  Presto,  Mr.  Rollins  was 
arrested,  a  search  made  of  his  room,  and  nearly  all  of 
the  money  recovered.  Then,  being  "caught  with  the 


192  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

goods,"  he  confessed,  and  here  on  this  day  was  he 

being  hurried  to  O to  be  jailed  and  sentenced, 

while  Mr.  Binns  and  Mr.  Collins,  like  harpies,  hovered 
over  him,  anxious  to  make  literary  capital  of  his  error. 

The  only  thing  that  consoled  Mr.  Binns,  now  that 
this  story  was  finally  told,  was  that  although  he  had 
failed  to  make  it  impossible  for  Collins  to  get  it,  when 
it  came  to  the  writing  of  it  he  would  be  able  to  outdo 
him,  making  a  better  and  more  connected  narrative, 
Still,  even  here  he  was  a  little  dubious.  During  this 
interview  Collins  had  been  making  endless  notes,  put 
ting  down  each  least  shade  of  Binns's  questioning,  anc 
with  the  aid  of  one  or  several  of  the  best  men  of  thet 
News  would  probably  be  able  to  work  it  out.  Then 
what  would  be  left? 

But  as  they  were  nearing  O—  -  a  new  situation 
truded  itself  which  soon  threatened  on  the  face  of  il 
to  rob  Binns  of  nearly,  if  not  quite,  all  his  advantage. 
And  this  related,  primarily,  to  the  matter  of  a  picture, 
It  was  most  essential  that  one  should  be  made,  either 
here  or  in  the  city,  only  neither  Waxby  nor  himself, 
nor  the  city  editor  of  the  News  apparently,  had  thought 
to  include  an  artist  on  this  expedition.  Now  the  im-i 
portance  of  this  became  more  and  more  apparent,  anc 
Collins,  with  that  keen  sense  he  had  for  making  tre 
mendous  capital  of  seeming  by-products,  suggested 
after  first  remarking  that  he  "guessed"  they  woulc 
have  to  send  to  police  headquarters  afterward  anc 
have  one  made : 

"How  would  it  do,  old  man,  if  we  took  him  up  tc 
the  News  office  after  we  get  in,  and  let  your  friend; 
Hill  and  Weaver  make  a  picture  of  him?"  (Thest 
two  were  intimates  of  Binns  in  the  art  department,  a: 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  193 

Collins  happened  to  know.)     "Then  both  of  us  could 

I  get  one  right  away.    I'd  say  take  him  to  the  Star,  only 

the  News  is  so  much  nearer"  (which  was  true),  "and 

we   have   that  new   flash-light   machine,   you   know" 

(which    was    also   true,    the   Star   being   but   poorly 

'  equipped  in  this  respect).     He  added  a  friendly  aside 

1  to  the  effect  that  of  course  this  depended  on  whether 

the  prisoner  and  officers  in  charge  were  willing. 

"No,  no,  no!"   replied   Binns  irritably  and  suspi- 

}  ciously.     "No,  I  won't  do  that.     You  mean  you  want 

to  get  him  into  the  News  office  first.     Not  at  all.     I'll 

never  stand  for  that.    Hill  and  Weaver  are  my  friends, 

but  I  won't  do  it.     If  you  want  to  bring  him  down  to 

the  Star,  that's  different.     I'll  agree  to  that.     Our  art 

1  department  can  make,  pictures  just  as  good  as  yours, 

'  and  you  can  have  one." 

For  a  moment  Collins's  face  fell,  but  he  soon  re- 
I  turned  to  the  attack.  From  his  manner  one  would 
jhave  judged  that  he  was  actually  desirous  of  doing 
•  Binris  a  favor. 

"But  why  not  the  News?"  he  insisted  pleasantly. 
"Those  two  boys  are  your  friends.     They  wouldn't 
[do  anything  to  hurt  you.     Think  of  the  difference  in 
Uhe  distance,  the  time  we'll  save.     We  want  to  save 
s  time,  don't  we?     Here  it  is  nearly  six-thirty,  and  by 
the  time  we  get  back  to  the  office  it'll  be  half-past 
seven  or  eight.     It's  all  right  for  you,  because  you 
[can  write  faster,  but  look  at  me.     I'd  just  as  lief  go 
[down  there  as  not,  but  what's  the  difference?     Be 
sides  the  News  has  got  a  better  plant,  and  you  know  it. 
Either  Hill   or  Weaver'll   make   a   fine   picture,   and 
:  they'll  give  you  one.     Ain't  that  all  right?" 

At  once  he  sensed  what  it  was  that  Collins  wanted. 


194  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

What  he  really  understood  was  that  if  Collins  could 
get  this  great  train  robber  into  the  office  of  the  News 
first,  it  would  take  away  so  much  of  the  sheer  neces 
sity  he  would  be  put  to  of  repeating  all  he  had  heard 
and  seen  en  route.     For  once  there,  other  staff  mem 
bers  would  be  able  to  take  the  criminal  in  hand  an 
with  the  aid  of  what  Collins  had  to  report,  extrac 
such  a  tale  as  even  Binns  himself  could  not  better 
In  addition,  it  would  be  such  a  triumph  of  reportin 
— to  go  out  and  bring  your  subject  in! 

"No,  it's  not,"  replied  Binns  truculently,  "and 
won't  do  it.  It's  all  right  about  Hill  and  Weaver; 
I  know  they'll  give  me  a  picture  if  the  paper  will  le 
them,  but  I  know  the  paper  won't  let  them,  and  be 
sides,  you're  not  doing  it  for  that  reason.  I  knov 
what  you  want.  You  want  to  be  able  to  claim  in  th 
morning  that  you  brought  this  man  to  the  News  first 
I  know  you." 

For  a  moment  Collins  appeared  to  be  quieted  by  this 
and  half  seemed  to  abandon  the  project.  He  took  i 
up  again  after  a  few  moments,  however,  seeming! 
in  the  most  conciliatory  spirit  in  the  world,  only  no\ 
he  kept  boring  Binns  with  his  eyes,  a  thing  which  hj 
had  never  attempted  before. 

"Aw,  come  on,"  he  repeated  genially,  looking  Binn 
squarely  in  the  eyes.  "What's  the  use  being  smai 
about  this?  You  know  you've  got  the  best  of  th 
story  anyhow.  And  you're  goin'  to  get  a  picture  too' 
the  same  as  us.  If  you  don't,  then  we'll  have  to  g 
clear  to  your  office  or  send  a  man  down  to  the  jai 
Think  of  the  time  it'll  take.  What's  the  use  of  that 
One  picture's  as  good  as  another.  And  you  can't  tak! 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  195 

ny  good  pictures  down  there  to-night,  anyhow,  and 
ou  know  it." 

As  he  talked  he  held  Binns's  eyes  with  his  own,  and 
11  at  once  the  latter  began  to  feel  a  curious  wave  of 
warmth,  ease  and  uncertainty  or  confusion  creep  over 
im  in  connection  with  all  this.  What  was  so  wrong 
nth  this  proposition,  anyhow,  he  began  to  ask  himself, 
ven  while  inwardly  something  was  telling  him  that  it 
fas  all  wrong  and  that  he  was  making  a  great  mistake. 
"or  the  first  time  in  his  life,  and  especially  in  connec- 
on  with  so  trying  a  situation,  he  began  to  feel  an  odd 
ense  of  ease  and  comfort,  or  as  if  surrounded  by  a 
jloud  of  something  that  was  comfortable  and  sooth- 
ng.  This  scheme  of  Collins's  was  not  so  bad  after 
! ill,  he  thought.  What  was  wrong  with  it?  Hill  and 
jVeaver  were  his  friends.  They  would  make  a  good 
[icture  and  give  him  one.  Everything  Collins  was 

jaying  seemed  true  enough,  only,  only For  the 

frst  time  since  knowing  him,  and  in  spite  of  all  his 
Apposition  of  this  afternoon  and  before,  Binns  found 
jiimself  not  hating  his  rival  as  violently  as  he  had  in 
pie  past,  but  feeling  as  though  he  weren't  such  an 
itterly  bad  sort  after  all.  Curiously,  though,  he  still 

lidn't  believe  a  word  that  Collins  said,  but 

;    "To  the  News,  sure,"  he  found  himself  saying  in 

L  dumb,  half-numb  or  sensuously  warm  way.     "That 

,vouldn't  be  so  bad.    It's  nearer.    What's  wrong  with 

hat?    Hill  or  Weaver  will  make  a  good  picture  seven 

,>r  eight  inches  long,  and  then  I  can  take  it  along," 

>nly  at  the  same  time  he  was  thinking  to  himself,  "I 

shouldn't  really  do  this.     I  shouldn't  think  it.     He'll 

.^laim  the  credit  of  having  brought  this  man  to  the 

"\\fews  office.     He's  a  big  bluff,  and  I  hate  him.     I'll 


196  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

be  making  a  big  mistake.  The  Star  or  nothing — 
that's  what  I  should  say.  Let  him  come  down  tc 
the  Star/' 

In  the  meantime  they  were  entering  O ,  the 

station  of  which  now  appeared.  By  now,  somehow 
Collins  had  not  only  convinced  the  officers,  but  the 
prisoner  himself.  Binns  could  even  see  the  rural  love 
of  show  and  parade  a-gleam  in  their  eyes,  their  re 
spect  for  the  News,  the  larger  paper,  as  opposed  to  the 
Star.  The  Star  might  be  all  right,  but  plainly  the 
News  was  the  great  place  in  the  sight  of  these  rural1 
for  such  an  exhibition  as  this.  What  a  pity,  h< 
thought,  that  he  had  ever  left  the  News! 

As  he  arose  with  the  others  to  leave  the  train  hi 
said  dully,  "No,  I  won't  come  in  on  this.  It's  all  righ 
if  you  want  to  bring  him  down  to  the  Star,  or  yoi 
can  take  him  to  police  headquarters.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  let  you  do  this.  You  hear  now,  don't  you?" 

But  outside,  Collins  laying  hold  of  his  arm  in  at 
amazingly  genial  fashion,  seemed  to  come  nearer  td 
him  humanly  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  was  possibl* 
before. 

"You  come  up  with  me  to  the  News  now,"  Collin 
kept  saying,  "and  then  I'll  go  down  with  you  to  th< 
Star,  see?  We'll  just  let  Hill  or  Weaver  take  on< 
picture,  and  then  we'll  go  down  to  your  place — you 
see?" 

Although  Mr.  Binns  did  not  see,  he  went.  For  tfy 
time,  nothing  seemed  important.  If  Collins  had  stayecj 
by  him  he  could  possibly  have  prevented  his  writinj  j 
any  story  at  all.  Even  as  Binns  dreamed,  Collin  | 
hailed  a  carriage,  and  the  six  of  them  crowded  int<  j 
it  and  were  forthwith  whirled  away  to  the  door  o  j 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  197 

the  News  where,  once  they  had  reached  it  and  Collins, 
the  detectives,  and  the  bandit  began  hurrying  across 
the  sidewalk  to  that  familiar  door  which  once  had 
meant  so  much  to  him,  Binns  suddenly  awoke.  What 
was  it — the  door?  Or  the  temporary  distraction  of 
Collins  ?  At  any  rate,  he  awoke  now  and  made  a  fran 
tic  effort  to  retrieve  himself. 

"Wait!"  he  called.  "Say,  hold  on!  Stop!  I 
won't  do  this  at  all.  I  don't  agree  to  this !"  but  now  it 
was  too  late.  In  a  trice  the  prisoner,  officers,  Collins 
and  even  himself  were  up  the  two  or  three  low  steps 
|  of  the  main  entrance  and  into  the  hall,  and  then  seeing 
;  the  hopelessness  of  it  he  paused  as  they  entered  the 
i  elevator  and  was  left  to  meditate  on  the  inexplicability 
of  the  thing  that  had  been  done  to  him. 

What  was  it?  How  had  this  low  brute  succeeded 
in  doing  this  to  him  ?  By  the  Lord,  he  had  succeeded 
in  hypnotizing  him,  or  something  very  much  like  it. 
What  had  become,  then,  of  his  superior  brain,  his  in 
tellectual  force,  in  the  face  of  this  gross  savage  desire 
on  the  part  of  Collins  to  win?  It  was  unbelievable. 
Collins  had  beaten  him,  and  that  in  a  field  and  at  a 
task  at  which  he  deemed  himself  unusually  superior. 

"Great  heavens !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  to  himself. 
"That's  what  he's  done,  he's  beaten  me  at  my  own 
game !  He's  taken  the  prisoner,  whom  I  really  had  in 
>my  own  hands  at  one  time,  into  the  office  of  our  great 
!  rival,  and  now  in  the  morning  it  will  all  be  in  the 
paper!  And  I  allowed  him  to  do  it!  And  I  had  him 
.beaten,  too!  Why  didn't  I  kick  him  off  the  train? 
Why  didn't  I  bribe  the  conductor  to  help  me?  I 
could  have.  I  was  afraid  of  him,  that's  what  it  is. 
And  to-morrow  there'll  be  a  long  editorial  in  the  News 


198  A  STORY  OF  STORIES 

telling  how  this  fellow  was  brought  first  to  the  News 
and  photographed,  and  they'll  have  his  picture  to  prove 
it.  Oh,  Lord,  what  shall  I  do  ?  How  am  I  to  get  out 
of  this?" 

Disconsolate  and  weary,  he  groaned  and  swore  for 
blocks  as  he  made  his  way  toward  the  office  of  the 
Star.  How  to  break  it  to  Waxby!  How  to  explain! 
The  exact  truth  meant  disgrace,  possibly  dismissal. 
He  couldn't  tell  really,  as  he  had  hoped  he  might,  how 
he  had  all  but  prevented  Collins  from  obtaining  any 
interview.  Waxby  would  have  sniffed  at  his  weakness 
in  a  crisis,  put  him  down  as  a  failure. 

Reaching  the  office,  he  told  another  kind  of  story 
which  was  but  a  half  truth.  What  he  could  and  did 
say  was  that  the  police,  being  temperamentally  en  rap 
port  with  Collins,  had  worked  with  him  and  against 
the  Star;  that  in  spite  of  anything  he  could  do,  these 
rural  officers  and  detectives  had  preferred  to  follow 
Collins  rather  than  himself,  that  the  superior  position; 
of  the  News  had  lured  them,  and  that  against  his  final 
and  fierce  protest  they  had  eventually  gone  in  there, 
since  the  News  was  on  the  natural  route  to  the  jail,  and 
the  Star  was  not. 

Now  it  was  Waxby's  turn  to  rage,  and  he  did — not 
at  Binns,  but  at  the  low  dogs  of  police  who  were  al 
ways  favoring  the  News  at  the  expense  of  the  Star. 
They  had  done  it  in  the  past,  as  he  well  knew,  when 
he  was  city  editor  of  the  News.  Then  it  had  pleased 
him — but  now 

"I'll  fix  them!"  he   squeaked  shrilly.     "I'll  make 

them  sweat.    No  more  favors  from  me,  by ,"  anc}^ 

rushing  a  photographer  to  the  jail  he  had  various  pic^ 
tures  made,  excellent  ones,  for  that  matter — only, 


A  STORY  OF  STORIES  199 

what  was  the  good?  The  fact  that  the  News  had  the 
honor  of  making  the  first  picture  of  this  celebrity  under 
its  own  roof,  its  own  vine  and  fig-tree,  was  galling. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Waxby  by  now  was  blaming  him 
self  for  not  having  sent  an  artist  along. 

But  to  Binns  the  sad  part  was  that  Collins  had  him 
>eaten,  and  that  in  the  face  of  his  self-boasted  superi 
ority.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  might  slave  over  the 
text,  as  he  did,  giving  it,  because  of  his  despair  and 
chagrin,  all  his  best  touches,  still,  the  next  morning, 
Jiere  on  the  front  page  of  the  News,  was  a  large  pic- 
:ure  of  the  bandit  seated  in  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of 
the  News,  entirely  surrounded  by  reporters  and  editors, 
and  with  a  portion  of  the  figure,  although  not  the  head, 
of  the  publisher  himself  in  the  background.  And  over 
it  all  in  extra  large  type  was  the  caption : 

"LOAN  TRAIN  ROBBER  VISITS  OFFICE  OF 
NEWS  TO  PAY  HIS  RESPECTS"  while  under- 
jneath,  in  italics,  was  a  full  account  of  how  willingly 
he  had  visited  the  News  because  of  its  immense  com 
mercial,  moral  and  other  forms  of  superiority. 

Was  Binns  beaten? 

Well,  rather! 

And  did  he  feel  it? 

He  suffered  tortures,  not  only  for  days,  but  for 
Weeks  and  months,  absolute  tortures.  The  very 
thought  of  Collins  made  him  want  to  rise  and  slay 
[him. 

"To  think,"  he  said  over  and  over  to  himself,  "that 

[i  low  dog  like  Collins  on  whom  I  wouldn't  wipe  my 

| feet  intellectually,  as  it  were,  could  do  this  to  me! 

He  hypnotized  me,  by  George!     He  did!     He  can! 

i  May  be  he  could  do  it  again!    I  wonder  if  he  knows? 


;T|D 


200  A  STJDRY  OF  STORIES 

Am  I  really  the  lesser  and  this  scum  the  greater?  Do 
writers  grow  on  trees?" 

Sad  thought. 

And  some  weeks  later,  meeting  his  old  enemy  one 
day  on  the  street,  he  had  the  immense  dissatisfaction 
of  seeing  the  light  of  triumph  and  contempt  in  his 
eyes.  The  latter  was  so  bold  now,  and  getting  along 
so  well  as  a  reporter,  or  "newspaper  man,"  that  he 
had  the  hardihood  to  leer,  sniff  and  exclaim : 

"These  swell  reporters!  These  high-priced  ink- 
slingers!  Say,  who  got  the  best  of  the  train  robber 
story,  huh?" 

And  Binns  replied 

But  never  mind  what  Binns  replied.  It  wouldn't 
be  fit  to  read,  and  no  publisher  would  print  it  any 
how. 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS 
THERESA 

IN  all  Bleecker  Street  was  no  more  comfortable  door 
way  than  that  of  the  butcher  Rogaum,  even  if  the 
first  floor  was  given  over  to  meat  market  purposes.  It 
was  to  one  side  of  the  main  entrance,  which  gave  in 
gress  to  the  butcher  shop,  and  from  it  led  up  a  flight 
of  steps,  at  least  five  feet  wide,  to  the  living  rooms 
above.  A  little  portico  stood  out  in  front  of  it,  railed 
on  either  side,  and  within  was  a  second  or  final  door, 
I  forming,  with  the  outer  or  storm  door,  a  little  area, 
I  where  Mrs.  Rogaum  and  her  children  frequently  sat 
iof  a  summer's  evening.  The  outer  door  was  never 
j locked,  owing  to  the  inconvenience  it  would  inflict  on 
Mr.  Rogaum,  who  had  no  other  way  of  getting  up- 
j stairs.  In  winter,  when  all  had  gone  to  bed,  there 
shad  been  cases  in  which  belated  travelers  had  taken 
refuge  there  from  the  snow  or  sleet.  One  or  two 
pewsboys  occasionally  slept  there,  until  routed  out  by 
! Officer  Maguire,  who,  seeing  it  half  open  one  morn- 
ling  at  two  o'clock,  took  occasion  to  look  in.  He 
jogged  the  newsboys  sharply  with  his  stick,  and  then, 
when  they  were  gone,  tried  the  inner  door,  which  was 
locked. 

"You  ought  to  keep  that  outer  door  locked, 
Rogaum,"  he  observed  to  the  phlegmatic  butcher  the 
next  evening,  as  he  was  passing,  "people  might  get 
in.  A  couple  o'  kids  was  sleepin'  in  there  last  night." 

*Ach,  dot  iss  no  difference,"  answered  Rogaum 

201 


202     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

pleasantly.     "I  haf  der  inner  door  locked,  yet.     Le 
dem  sleep.     Dot  iss  no  difference." 

"Better  lock  it,"  said  the  officer,  more  to  vindicate 
his  authority  than  anything  else.  "Something  wil 
happen  there  yet." 

The  door  was  never  locked,  however,  and  now  o 
a  summer  evening  Mrs.  Rogaum  and  the  childrer 
made  pleasant  use  of  its  recess,  watching  the  rout  o: 
street  cars  and  occasionally  belated  trucks  go  by.  The 
children  played  on  the  sidewalk,  all  except  the  bud-^ 
ding  Theresa  (eighteen  just  turning),  who,  with  one 
companion  of  the  neighborhood,  the  pretty  Kenrihar. 
girl,  walked  up  and  down  the  block,  laughing,  glanc 
ing,  watching  the  boys.  Old  Mrs.  Kenrihan  lived  in 
the  next  block,  and  there,  sometimes,  the  two  stopped.! 
There,  also,  they  most  frequently  pretended  to  be 
when  talking  with  the  boys  in  the  intervening  side 
street.  Young  "Connie"  Almerting  and  George 
Goujon  were  the  bright  particular  mashers  who  held 
the  attention  of  the  maidens  in  this  block.  These  two 
made  their  acquaintance  in  the  customary  bold,  boyish! 
way,  and  thereafter  the  girls  had  an  urgent  desire  to 
be  out  in  the  street  together  after  eight,  and  to  linger 
where  the  boys  could  see  and  overtake  them. 

Old  Mrs.  Rogaum  never  knew.  She  was  a  particu-i 
larly  fat,  old  German  lady,  completely  dominated  by] 
her  liege  and  portly  lord,  and  at  nine  o'clock  regu 
larly,  as  he  had  long  ago  deemed  meet  and  fit,  shei 
was  wont  to  betake  her  way  upward  and  so  to  bed  I 
Old  Rogaum  himself,  at  that  hour,  closed  the  market 
and  went  to  his  chamber. 

Before  that  all  the  children  were  called  sharply,  once 
from  the  doorstep  below  and  once  from  the  window 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     203 

above,  only  Mrs-  Rogaum  did  it  first  and  Rogaum  last. 
It  had  come,  because  of  a  shade  of  lenience,  not  wholly 
apparent  in  the  father's  nature,  that  the  older  of  the 
children  needed  two  callings  and  sometimes  three. 
Theresa,  now  that  she  had  "got  in"  with  the  Kenrihan 
maiden,  needed  that  many  calls  and  even  more. 

She  was  just  at  that  age  for  which  mere  thoughtless, 
sensory  life  holds  its  greatest  charm.  She  loved  to 
walk  up  and  down  in  the  as  yet  bright  street  where 
were  voices  and  laughter,  and  occasionally  moonlight 
streaming  down.  What  a  nuisance  it  was  to  be  called 
at  nine,  anyhow.  Why  should  one  have  to  go  in  then, 
anyhow.  What  old  fogies  her  parents  were,  wishing 
to  go  to  bed  so  early.  Mrs.  Kenrihan  was  not  so  strict 
with  her  daughter.  It  made  her  pettish  when  Rogaum 
insisted,  calling  as  he  often  did,  in  German,  "Come  you 
now,"  in  a  very  hoarse  and  belligerent  voice. 

She  came,  eventually,  frowning  and  wretched,  all 

the  moonlight  calling  her,  all  the  voices  of  the  night 

urging  her  to  come  back.     Her  innate  opposition  due 

to  her  urgent  youth  made  her  coming  later  and  later, 

j  however,  until  now,  by  August  of  this,  her  eighteenth 

I  year,  it  was  nearly  ten  when  she  entered,  and  Rogaum 

was  almost  invariably  angry. 

"I  vill  lock  you  oudt,"  he  declared,  in  strongly  ac 
cented  English,  while  she  tried  to  slip  by  him  each 
time.  "I  vill  show  you.  Du  sollst  come  ven  I  say, 
yet.  Hear  now." 

"I'll  not,"  answered  Theresa,  but  it  was  always 
under  her  breath. 

Poor  Mrs.  Rogaum  troubled  at  hearing  the  wrath  in 
her  husband's  voice.  It  spoke  of  harder  and  fiercer 
times  which  had  been  with  her.  Still  she  was  not 


204     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

powerful  enough  in  the  family  councils  to  put  in  a 
weighty  word.  So  Rogaum  fumed  unrestricted. 

There  were  other  nights,  however,  many  of  them, 
and  now  that  the  young  sparks  of  the  neighborhood 
had  enlisted  the  girls'  attention,  it  was  a  more  trying 
time  than  ever.  Never  did  a  street  seem  more  beau 
tiful.  Its  shabby  red  walls,  dusty  pavements  and  pro 
truding  store  steps  and  iron  railings  seemed  bits  of 
the  ornamental  paraphernalia  of  heaven  itself.  These 
lights,  the  cars,  the  moon,  the  street  lamps!  Theresa 
had  a  tender  eye  for  the  dashing  Almerting,  a  young 
idler  and  loafer  of  the  district,  the  son  of  a  stationer 
farther  up  the  street.  What  a  fine  fellow  he  was,  in 
deed  !  What  a  handsome  nose  and  chin !  What  eyes ! 
What  authority!  His  cigarette  was  always  cocked  at 
a  high  angle,  in  her  presence,  and  his  hat  had  the 
least  suggestion  of  being  set  to  one  side.  He  had 
a  shrewd  way  of  winking  one  eye,  taking  her  boldly 
by  the  arm,  hailing  her  as,  "Hey,  Pretty!"  and  was 
strong  and  athletic  and  worked  (when  he  worked)  in 
a  tobacco  factory.  His  was  a  trade,  indeed,  nearly 
acquired,  as  he  said,  and  his  jingling  pockets  attested 
that  he  had  money  of  his  own.  Altogether  he  was 
very  captivating. 

"Aw,  whaddy  ya  want  to  go  in  for?"  he  used  to 
say  to  her,  tossing  his  head  gayly  on  one  side  to  listen 
and  holding  her  by  the  arm,  as  old  Rogaum  called 
"Tell  him  yuh  didn't  hear." 

"No,  I've  got  to  go,"  said  the  girl,  who  was  soft 
and  plump  and  fair — a  Rhine  maiden  type. 

"Well,  yuh  don't  have  to  go  just  yet.  Stay  another 
minute.  George,  what  was  that  fellow's  name  that 
tried  to  sass  us  the  other  day?" 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     205 

"Theresa !"  roared  old  Rogaum  forcefully.  "If  you 
do  not  now  come !  Ve  vill  see !" 

"I've  got  to  go,"  repeated  Theresa  with  a  faint  ef 
fort  at  starting.  "Can't  you  hear?  Don't  hold  me. 
I  haf  to." 

"Aw,  whaddy  ya  want  to  be  such  a  coward  for? 
Y'  don't  have  to  go.  He  won't  do  nothin'  tuh  yuh. 
My  old  man  was  always  hollerin'  like  that  up  tuh  a 
coupla  years  ago.  Let  him  holler!  Say,  kid,  but 
yuh  got  sweet  eyes!  They're  as  blue!  An'  your 
mouth " 

"Now  stop !  You  hear  me !"  Theresa  would  protest 
softly,  as,  swiftly,  he  would  slip  an  arm  about  her 
waist  and  draw  her  to  him,  sometimes  in  a  vain,  some 
times  in  a  successful  effort  to  kiss  her. 

As  a  rule  she  managed  to  interpose  an  elbow  be 
tween  her  face  and  his,  but  even  then  he  would  man 
age  to  touch  an  ear  or  a  cheek  or  her  neck — sometimes 
her  mouth,  full  and  warm — before  she  would  develop 
sufficient  energy  to  push  him  away  and  herself  free. 
iThen  she  would  protest  mock  earnestly  or  sometimes 
irun  away. 

"Now,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  any  more,  if  that's 
the  way  you're  going  to  do.  My  father  don't  allow* 
me  to  kiss  boys,  anyhow,"  and  then  she  would  run, 
half  ashamed,  half  smiling  to  herself  as  he  would  stare 
after  her,  or  if  she  lingered,  develop  a  kind  of  anger 
and  even  rage. 

"Aw,  cut  it!  Whaddy  ya  want  to  be  so  shy  for? 
Dontcha  like  me?  What's  gettin'  into  yuh,  anyhow? 
Hey?" 

In  the  meantime  George  Goujon  and  Myrtle  Kenri- 
han,  their  companions,  might  be  sweeting  and  going 


206     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

through  a  similar  contest,  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  up 
the  street  or  near  at  hand.  The  quality  of  old  Ro- 
gaum's  voice  would  by  now  have  become  so  raucous, 
however,  that  Theresa  would  have  lost  all  comfort 
in  the  scene  and,  becoming  frightened,  hurry  away. 
Then  it  was  often  that  both  Almerting  and  Goujon 
as  well  as  Myrtle  Kenrihan  would  follow  her  to  the 
corner,  almost  in  sight  of  the  irate  old  butcher. 

"Let  him  call,"  young  Almerting  would  insist,  lay 
ing  a  final  hold  on  her  soft  white  fingers  and  caus 
ing  her  to  quiver  thereby. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  would  gasp  nervously.    "I  can't." 

"Well,  go  on,  then,"  he  would  say,  and  with  a  flip 
of  his  heel  would  turn  back,  leaving  Theresa  to  won 
der  whether  she  had  alienated  him  forever  or  no. 
Then  she  would  hurry  to  her  father's  door. 

"Muss  ich  all  my  time  spenden  calling,  mit  you  on 
de  streeds  oudt?"  old  Rogaum  would  roar  wrath- 
fully,  the  while  his  fat  hand  would  descend  on  her 
back.  "Take  dot  now.  Vy  don'd  you  come  ven  I 
call  ?  In  now.  I  vill  show  you.  Und  come  you  yussed 
vunce  more  at  dis  time — ve  vill  see  if  I  am  boss  in  my 
own  house,  aber!  Komst  du  vun  minute  nach  ten 
to-morrow  und  you  vill  see  vot  you  vill  get.  I  vill 
der  door  lock.  Du  sollst  not  in  kommen.  Mark! 
Oudt  sollst  du  stayen — oudt!"  and  he  would  glare 
wr:.th  fully  at  her  retreating  figure. 

Sometimes  Theresa  would  whimper,  sometimes  cry 
or  sulk.  She  almost  hated  her  father  for  his  cruelty, 
"the  big,  fat,  rough  thing,"  and  just  because  she 
wanted  to  stay  out  in  the  bright  streets,  too !  Because 
he  was  old  and  stout  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed  at  ten, 
he  thought  every  one  else  did.  And  outside  was  the 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    207 

dark  sky  with  its  stars,  the  street  lamps,  the  cars,  the 
tinkle  and  laughter  of  eternal  life! 

"Oh!"  she  would  sigh  as  she  undressed  and  crawled 
into  her  small  neat  bed.  To  think  that  she  had  to 
live  like  this  all  her  days!  At  the  same  time  old 
Rogaum  was  angry  and  equally  determined.  It  was 
not  so  much  that  he  imagined  that  his  Theresa  was 
in  bad  company  as  yet,  but  he  wished  to  forefend 
against  possible  danger.  This  was  not  a  good  neigh 
borhood  by  any  means.  The  boys  around  here  were 
tough.  He  wanted  Theresa  to  pick  some  nice  sober 
youth  from  among  the  other  Germans  he  and  his  wife 
knew  here  and  there — at  the  Lutheran  Church,  for  in 
stance.  Otherwise  she  shouldn't  marry.  He  knew 
she  only  walked  from  his  shop  to  the  door  of  the 
Kenrihans  and  back  again.  Had  not  his  wife  told  him 
so?  If  he  had  thought  upon  what  far  pilgrimage  her 
feet  had  already  ventured,  or  had  even  seen  the  dash 
ing  Almerting  hanging  near,  then  had  there  been  wrath 
indeed.  As  it  was,  his  mind  was  more  or  less  at  ease. 

On  many,  many  evenings  it  was  much  the  same. 
jSometimes  she  got  in  on  time,  sometimes  not,  but 
more  and  more  "Connie"  Almerting  claimed  her  for 
his  "steady,"  and  bought  her  ice-cream.  In  the  range 
of  the  short  block  and  its  confining  corners  it  was  all 
done,  lingering  by  the  curbstone  and  strolling  a  half 
block  either  way  in  the  side  streets,  until  she  had 
offended  seriously  at  home,  and  the  threat  was  re 
peated  anew.  He  often  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go 
on  picnics  or  outings  of  various  kinds,  but  this,  some 
how,  was  not  to  be  thought  of  at  her  age — at  least 
with  him.  She  knew  her  father  would  never  endure 
the  thought,  and  never  even  had  the  courage  to  men- 


2o8     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

tion  it,  let  alone  run  away.  Mere  lingering  with  hind 
at  the  adjacent  street  corners  brought  stronger  and 
stronger  admonishments — even  more  blows  and  the 
threat  that  she  should  not  get  in  at  all. 

Well  enough  she  meant  to  obey,  but  on  one  radiant 
night  late  in  June  the  time  fled  too  fast.  The  moont 
was  so  bright,  the  air  so  soft.  The  feel  of  far  sum-< 
mer  things  was  in  the  wind  and  even  in  this  dusty\ 
street.  Theresa,  in  a  newly  starched  white  summer 
dress,  had  been  loitering  up  and  down  with  Myrtle* 
when  as  usual  they  encountered  Almerting  and 
Goujon.  Now  it  was  ten,  and  the  regular  calls  were* 
beginning. 

"Aw,  wait  a  minute,"  said  "Connie."  "Stand  still. 
He  won't  lock  yuh  out." 

"But  he  will,  though,"  said  Theresa.  "You  don't' 
know  him." 

"Well,  if  he  does,  come  on  back  to  me.     I'll  takei 
care  of  yuh.     I'll  be  here.     But  he  won't  though.     If  I 
you  stayed  out  a  little  while  he'd  letcha  in  all  right. 
That's  the  way  my  old  man  used  to  try  to  do  me  but 
it  didn't  work  with  me.     I  stayed  out  an'  he  let  me  in, 
just  the  same.     Don'tcha  let  him  kidja."     He  jingled 
some  loose  change  in  his  pocket. 

Never  in  his  life  had  he  had  a  girl  on  his  hands  at 
any  unseasonable  hour,  but  it  was  nice  to  talk  big, 
and  there  was  a  club  to  which  he  belonged,  The  Varick 
Street  Roosters,  and  to  which  he  had  a  key.  It  would 
be  closed  and  empty  at  this  hour,  and  she  could  stay 
there  until  morning,  if  need  be  or  with  Myrtle  Kenri- 
han.  He  would  take  her  there  if  she  insisted.  There 
was  a  sinister  grin  on  the  youth's  face. 

By  now  Theresa's  affections  had  carried  her  far. 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    209 

This  youth  with  his  slim  body,  his  delicate  strong 
hands,  his  fine  chin,  straight  mouth  and  hard  dark  eyes 
— how  wonderful  he  seemed !  He  was  but  nineteen  to 
her  eighteen  but  cold,  shrewd,  daring.  Yet  how  ten 
der  he  seemed  to  her,  how  well  worth  having! 
Always,  when  he  kissed  her  now,  she  trembled  in  the 
balance.  There  was  something  in  the  iron  grasp  of 
his  fingers  that  went  through  her  like  fire.  His  glance 
held  hers  at  times  when  she  could  scarcely  endure  it. 

"I'll  wait,  anyhow,"  he  insisted. 

Longer  and  longer  she  lingered,  but  now  for  once  no 
voice  came. 

She  began  to  feel  that  something  was  wrong — a 
greater  strain  than  if  old  Rogaum's  voice  had  been 
filling  the  whole  neighborhood. 

"I've  got  to  go,"  she  said. 

"Gee,  but  you're  a  coward,  yuh  are!"  said  he  de- 
|risively.  "What  'r  yuh  always  so  scared  about?  He 
i  always  says  he'll  lock  yuh  out,  but  he  never  does." 

"Yes,  but  he  will,"  she  insisted  nervously.  "I  think 
jhe  has  this  time.  You  don't  know  him.  He's  some 
thing  awful  when  he  gets  real  mad.  Oh,  Connie,  I 
jmust  go!"  For  the  sixth  or  seventh  time  she  moved, 
land  once  more  he  caught  her  arm  and  waist  and  tried 
to  kiss  her,  but  she  slipped  away  from  him. 

"Ah,  yuh!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  wish  he  would  lock 
yuh  out!" 

At  her  own  doorstep  she  paused  momentarily,  more 

to  soften  her  progress  than  anything.    The  outer  door 

i  was  open  as  usual,  but  not  the  inner.    She  tried  it,  but 

!  it  would  not  give.    It  was  locked !    For  a  moment  she 

paused,   cold   fear   racing  over  her  body,   and  then 

knocked. 


210     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

No  answer. 

Again  she  rattled  the  door,  this  time  nervously, 
and  was  about  to  cry  out. 

Still  no  answer. 

At  last  she  heard  her  father's  voice,  hoarse  and  in 
different,  not  addressed  to  her  at  all,  but  to  her  mother. 

"Let  her  go,  now,"  it  said  savagely,  from  the  front 
room  where  he  supposed  she  could  not  hear.  "I  vill 
her  a  lesson  teach." 

"Hadn't  you  better  let  her  in  now,  yet?"  pleaded 
Mrs.  Rogaum  faintly. 

"No,"  insisted  Mr.  Rogaum.  "Nef er !  Let  her  go 
now.  If  she  vill  alvays  stay  oudt,  let  her  stay  now. 
Ve  vill  see  how  she  likes  dot." 

His  voice  was  rich  in  wrath,  and  he  was  saving 
up  a  good  beating  for  her  into  the  bargain,  that  she 
knew.  She  would  have  to  wait  and  wait  and  plead, 
and  when  she  was  thoroughly  wretched  and  subdued 
he  would  let  her  in  and  beat  her — such  a  beating  as 
she  had  never  received  in  all  her  born  days. 

Again  the  door  rattled,  and  still  she  got  no  answer. 
Not  even  her  call  brought  a  sound. 

Now,  strangely,  a  new  element,  not  heretofore  ap 
parent  in  her  nature  but  nevertheless  wholly  there, 
was  called  into  life,  springing  in  action  as  Diana,  full 
formed.  Why  should  he  always  be  so  harsh?  She 
hadn't  done  anything  but  stay  out  a  little  later  than 
usual.  He  was  always  so  anxious  to  keep  her  in  and 
subdue  her.  For  once  the  cold  chill  of  her  girlish  fears 
left  her,  and  she  wavered  angrily. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  some  old  German  stubborn 
ness  springing  up,  "I  won't  knock.  You  don't  need  to 
let  me  in,  then." 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    211 

A  suggestion  of  tears  was  in  her  eyes,  but  she  backed 
rmly  out  onto  the  stoop  and  sat  down,  hesitating. 
)ld  Rogaum  saw  her,  lowering  down  from  the  lattice, 
ut  said  nothing.  He  would  teach  her  for  once  what 
rere  proper  hours! 

At  the  corner,  standing,  Almerting  also  saw  her. 
[e  recognized  the  simple  white  dress,  and  paused 
ceadily,  a  strange  thrill  racing  over  him.  Really  they 
ad  locked  her  out !  Gee,  this  was  new.  It  was  great, 
i  a  way.  There  she  was,  white,  quiet,  shut  out,  wait- 
ig  at  her  father's  doorstep. 

:  Sitting  thus,  Theresa  pondered  a  moment,  her  girl- 
jh  rashness  and  anger  dominating  her.  Her  pride 
ras  hurt  and  she  felt  revengeful.  They  would  shut 
er  out,  would  they  ?  All  right,  she  would  go  out  and 
ley  should  look  to  it  how  they  would  get  her  back — 
le  old  curmudgeons.  For  the  moment  the  home  of 
fyrtle  Kenrihan  came  to  her  as  a  possible  refuge,  but 
iie  decided  that  she  need  not  go  there  yet.  She  had 
?tter  wait  about  awhile  and  see — or  walk  and  frighten 
lem.  He  would  beat  her,  would  he?  Well,  maybe 
£  would  and  maybe  he  wouldn't.  She  might  come 
ick,  but  still  that  was  a  thing  afar  off.  Just  now 
;  didn't  matter  so  much.  "Connie"  was  still  there  on 
le  corner.  He  loved  her  dearly.  She  felt  it. 

Getting  up,  she  stepped  to  the  now  quieting  side- 
Talk  and  strolled  up  the  street.  It  was  a  rather  ner- 
ous  procedure,  however.  There  were  street  cars  still, 
ad  stores  lighted  and  people  passing,  but  soon  these 
Tould  not  be,,  and  she  was  locked  out.  The  side 
Jreets  were  already  little  more  than  long  silent  walks 
nd  gleaming  rows  of  lamps. 


212     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

At  the  comer  her  youthful  lover  almost  pouncec 
upon  her. 

"Locked  out,  are  yuh  ?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  shining. 

For  the  moment  she  was  delighted  to  see  him,  for  j 
nameless  dread  had  already  laid  hold  of  her.  Horn* 
meant  so  much.  Up  to  now  it  had  been  her  wholt 
life. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  feebly. 

"Well,  let's  stroll  on  a  little,"  said  the  boy.  He 
had  not  as  yet  quite  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do,  bul 
the  night  was  young.  It  was  so  fine  to  have  her  with 
him — his. 

At  the  farther  corner  they  passed  Officers  Maguire 
and  Delahanty,  idly  swinging  their  clubs  and  discuss 
ing  politics. 

"  Tis  a  shame,"  Officer  Delahanty  was  saying,  "the 
way  things  are  run  now,"  but  he  paused  to  add,  "Ain't 
that  old  Rogaum's  girl  over  there  with  young  AlmeM 
ting?" 

"It  is,"  replied  Maguire,  looking  after. 

"Well,  I'm  thinkin'  he'd  better  be  keepin'  an  eye  on 
her,"  said  the  former.  "She's  too  young  to  be  runnin' 
around  with  the  likes  o'  him." 

Maguire  agreed.  "He's  a  young  tough,"  he  ob 
served.  "I  never  liked  him.  He's  too  fresh.  He 
works  over  here  in  Myer's  tobacco  factory,  and  belongs 
to  The  Roosters.  He's  up  to  no  good,  I'll  warrant 
that." 

"Teach  'em  a  lesson,  I  would,"  Almerting  was  say 
ing  to  Theresa  as  they  strolled  on.  "We'll  walk 
around  a  while  an'  make  'em  think  yuh  mean  business. 
They  won't  lock  yuh  out  any  more.  If  they  don't  let 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    213 

yuh  in  when  we  come  back  I'll  find  yuh  a  place,  all 
right." 

His  sharp  eyes  were  gleaming  as  he  looked  around 
jinto  her  own.  Already  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
1  she  should  not  go  back  if  he  could  help  it.  He  knew 
la  better  place  than  home  for  this  night,  anyhow — the 
'club  room  of  the  Roosters,  if  nowhere  else.  They 
'could  stay  there  for  a  time,  anyhow. 

By  now  old  Rogaum,  who  had  seen  her  walking  up 
the  street  alone,  was  marveling  at  her  audacity,  but 
thought  she  would  soon  come  back.  It  was  amazing 
that  she  should  exhibit  such  temerity,  but  he  would 
ijteachher!  Such  a  whipping !  At  half -past  ten,  how 
ever,  he  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  open  window  and 
saw  nothing  of  her.  At  eleven,  the  same.  Then  he 
walked  the  floor. 

At  first  wrathful,  then  nervous,  then  nervous  and 
rathful,  he  finally  ended  all  nervous,  without  a  scin 
tilla  of  wrath.  His  stout  wife  sat  up  in  bed  and 
began  to  wring  her  hands. 

"Lie  down!"  he  commanded.  "You  make  me  sick. 
|I  know  vot  I  am  doing!" 

"Is  she  still  at  der  door?"  pleaded  the  mother. 

"No,"   he    said.      "I    don't   tink   so.      She   should 

me  ven  I  call." 

His  nerves  were  weakening,  however,  and  now  they 
lly  collapsed. 

"She  vent  de  stread  up,"  he  said  anxiously  after  a 
me.  "I  vill  go  after." 

Slipping  on  his  coat,  he  went  down  the  stairs  and 
out  into  the  night.  It  was  growing  late,  and  the  still 
ness  and  gloom  of  midnight  were  nearing.  Nowhere 
in  sight  was  his  Theresa.  First  one  way  and  then 


214     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

another  he  went,  looking  here,  there,  everywhere, 
finally  groaning. 

"Ach,  Gott!"  he  said,  the  sweat  bursting  out  on  his 
brow,  "vot  in  Teufel's  name  iss  dis?" 

He  thought  he  would  seek  a  policeman,  but  there 
was  none.  Officer  Maguire  had  long  since  gone  for 
a  quiet  game  in  one  of  the  neighboring  saloons.  His 
partner  had  temporarily  returned  to  his  own  beat. 
Still  old  Rogaum  hunted  on,  worrying  more  and  more. 

Finally  he  bethought  him  to  hasten  home  again,  for 
she  must  have  got  back.  Mrs.  Rogaum,  too,  would 
be  frantic  if  she  had  not.  If  she  were  not  there  he 
must  go  to  the  police.  Such  a  night!  And  his  The 
resa This  thing  could  not  go  on. 

As  he  turned  into  his  own  corner  he  almost  ran, 
coming  up  to  the  little  portico  wet  and  panting.  At 
a  puffing  step  he  turned,  and  almost  fell  over  a  white 
body  at  his  feet,  a  prone  and  writhing  woman. 

"Ach,  Gott!''  he  cried  aloud,  almost  shouting  in  his 
distress  and  excitement.  "Theresa,  vot  iss  dis?  Wil- 
helmina,  a  light  now.  Bring  a  light  now,  I  say,  for 
himmers  sake!  Theresa  hat  sich  umgebracht. 
Help!" 

He  had  fallen  to  his  knees  and  was  turning  over 
the  writhing,  groaning  figure.  By  the  pale  light  of 
the  street,  however,  he  could  make  out  that  it  was  not 
his  Theresa,  fortunately,  as  he  had  at  first  feared,  but 
another  and  yet  there  was  something  very  like  her  in 
the  figure. 

"Urn!"  said  the  stranger  weakly.     "Ah!" 

The  dress  was  gray,  not  white  as  was  his  Theresa's, 
but  the  body  was  round  and  plump.  It  cut  the  fiercest 
cords  of  his  intensity,  this  thought  of  death  to  a  young 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     215 

fc  woman,  but  there  was  something  else  about  the  situa- 
i  tion  which  made  him  forget  his  own  troubles. 

Mrs.  Rogaum,  loudly  admonished,  almost  tumbled 
[{down  the  stairs.     At  the  foot  she  held  the  light  she 
fc  had  brought — a  small  glass  oil-lamp — and  then  nearly 
I  dropped  it.    A  fairly  attractive  figure,  more  girl  than 
I  woman,  rich  in  all  the  physical  charms  that  charac 
terize  a  certain  type,  lay  near  to  dying.     Her  soft 
hair  had  fallen  back  over  a  good  forehead,  now  quite 
white.    Her  pretty  hands,  well  decked  with  rings,  were 
i  clutched   tightly  in  an  agonized  grip.     At  her  neck 
a.  blue  silk  shirtwaist  and  light  lace  collar  were  torn 
f|away  where  she  had  clutched  herself,  and  on  the  white 
flesh  was  a  yellow   stain  as  of   one  who  had  been 
burned.     A  strange  odor  reeked  in  the  area,  and  in 
!one  corner  was  a  spilled  bottle. 

"Ach,  Gott!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rogaum.  "It  iss  a 
fjvooman!  She  haf  herself  gekilt.  Run  for  der  po- 
jlice!  Oh,  my !  oh,  my !" 

Rogaum  did  not  kneel  for  more  than  a  moment. 
iSomehow,  this  creature's  fate  seemed  in  some  psychic 
iway  identified  with  that  of  his  own  daughter.  He 
founded  up,  and  jumping  out  his  front  door,  began  to 
icall  lustily  for  the  police.  Officer  Maguire,  at  his  so- 
<cial  game  nearby,  heard  the  very  first  cry  and  came 
running. 

"What's  the  matter  here,  now  ?"  he  exclaimed,  rush 
ing  up  full  and  ready  for  murder,  robbery,  fire,  or,  in 
deed,  anything  in  the  whole  roster  of  human  calam 
ities. 

"A  vooman!"  said  Rogaum  excitedly.  "She  haf 
herself  umgebmcht.  She  iss  dying.  Ach,  Gott !  in  my 
own  doorstep,  yet!" 


216     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

"Vere  iss  der  hospital?'*  put  in  Mrs.  Rogaum,  think 
ing  clearly  of  an  ambulance,  but  not  being  able  to 
express  it.  "She  iss  gekilt,  sure.  Oh!  Oh!"  and 
bending  over  her  the  poor  old  motherly  soul  stroked 
the  tightened  hands,  and  trickled  tears  upon  the  blue 
shirtwaist.  "Ach,  vy  did  you  do  dot?"  she  said. 
"Ach,  for  vy?" 

Officer  Maguire  was  essentially  a  man  of  action. 
He  jumped  to  the  sidewalk,  amid  the  gathering  com 
pany,  and  beat  loudly  with  his  club  upon  the  stone  flag 
ging.  Then  he  ran  to  the  nearest  police  phone,  re 
turning  to  aid  in  any  other  way  he  might.  A  milk 
wagon  passing  on  its  way  from  the  Jersey  ferry  with 
a  few  tons  of  fresh  milk  aboard,  he  held  it  up  and 
demanded  a  helping. 

"Give  us  a  quart  there,  will  you?"  he  said  authori 
tatively.  "A  woman's  swallowed  acid  in  here." 

"Sure,"  said  the  driver,  anxious  to  learn  the  cause 
of  the  excitement.  "Got  a  glass,  anybody?" 

Maguire  ran  back  and  returned,  bearing  a  measure. 
Mrs.  Rogaum  stood  looking  nervously  on,  while  the 
stocky  officer  raised  the  golden  head  and  poured  the 
milk. 

"Here,  now,  drink  this,"  he  said.  "Come  on.  Try 
an'  swallow  it." 

The  girl,  a  blonde  of  the  type  the  world  too  well 
knows,  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked,  groaning  a  little. 

"Drink  it,"  shouted  the  officer  fiercely.  "Do  you 
want  to  die?  Open  your  mouth!" 

Used  to  a  fear  of  the  law  in  all  her  days,  she  obeyed 
now,  even  in  death.  The  lips  parted,  the  fresh  milk 
was  drained  to  the  end,  some  spilling  on  neck  and 
cheek. 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    217 

While  they  were  working  old  Rogaum  came  back 
and  stood  looking  on,  by  the  side  of  his  wife.  Also 
(Officer  Delahanty,  having  heard  the  peculiar  wooden 
jring  of  the  stick  upon  the  stone  in  the  night,  had  come 

bp. 

"Ach,  ach,"  exclaimed  Rogaum  rather  distractedly, 
fund  she  iss  oudt  yet.  I  could  not  find  her.  Oh, 

ir 

There  was  a  clang  of  a  gong  up  the  street  as  the 
racing  ambulance  turned  rapidly  in.  A  young  hospital 
Burgeon  dismounted,  and  seeing  the  woman's  condi 
tion,  ordered  immediate  removal.  Both  officers  and 
<Rogaum,  as  well  as  the  surgeon,  helped  place  her  in 
Ithe  ambulance.  After  a  moment  the  lone  bell,  ring 
ing  wildly  in  the  night,  was  all  the  evidence  remain 
ing  that  a  tragedy  had  been  here. 

"Do  you  know  how  she  came  here?"  asked  Officer 
Delahanty,  coming  back  to  get  Rogaum's  testimony  for 
the  police. 

"No,  no,"  answered  Rogaum  wretchedly.  "She 
yass  here  alretty.  I  vass  for  my  daughter  loog.  Ach, 
himmel,  I  haf  my  daughter  lost.  She  iss  avay." 

Mrs.  Rogaum  also  chattered,  the  significance  of 
(Theresa's  absence  all  the  more  painfully  emphasized 
Dy  this. 

The  officer  did  not  at  first  get  the  import  of  this. 
He  was  only  interested  in  the  facts  of  the  present 


"You  say  she  was  here  when  you  come?  Where 
was  you?" 

"I  say  I  vass  for  my  daughter  loog.  I  come  here,, 
and  der  vooman  vass  here  now  alretty." 

"Yes.    What  time  was  this?" 


218     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

"Only  now  yet.     Yussed  a  half -hour." 

Officer  Maguire  had  strolled  up,  after  chasing  away 
a  small  crowd  that  had  gathered  with  fierce  and  unholy 
threats.  For  the  first  time  now  he  noticed  the  peculiar 
perturbation  of  the  usually  placid  German  couple. 

"What  about  your  daughter  ?"  he  asked,  catching  a 
word  as  to  that. 

Both  old  people  raised  their  voices  at  once. 

"She  haf  gone.  She  haf  run  avay.  Ach,  himmel, 
ve  must  for  her  loog.  Quick — she  could  not  get  in. 
Ve  had  der  door  shut." 

"Locked  her  out,  eh?"  inquired  Maguire  after  a 
time,  hearing  much  of  the  rest  of  the  story. 

"Yes,"  explained  Rogaum.  "It  was  to  schkare  her 
a  liddle.  She  vould  not  come  ven  I  called." 

"Sure,  that's  the  girl  we  saw  walkin'  with  young 
Almerting,  do  ye  mind  ?  The  one  in  the  white  dress," 
said  Delahanty  to  Maguire. 

"White  dress,  yah!"  echoed  Rogaum,  and  then  the 
fact  of  her  walking  with  some  one  came  home  like  a 
blow. 

"Did  you  hear  dot?"  he  exclaimed  even  as  Mrs. 
Rogaum  did  likewise.  "Mein  Gott,  hast  du  das 
gehoert?" 

He  fairly  jumped  as  he  said  it.  His  hands  flew  up 
to  his  stout  and  ruddy  head. 

"Whaddy  ya  want  to  let  her  out  for  nights?"  asked 
Maguire  roughly,  catching  the  drift  of  the  situation. 
"That's  no  time  for  young  girls  to  be  out,  anyhow, 
and  with  these  toughs  around  here.  Sure,  I  saw  her, 
nearly  two  hours  ago." 

"Ach,"  groaned  Rogaum.  "Two  hours  yet.  Ho, 
ho,  ho !"  His  voice  was  quite  hysteric, 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    219 

"Well,  go  on  in,"  said  Officer  Delahanty.  "There's 
no  use  yellin'  out  here.  Give  us  a  description  of  her 
an*  we'll  send  out  an  alarm.  You  won't  be  able  to 
find  her  walkin'  around." 

Her  parents  described  her  exactly.  The  two  men 
turned  to  the  nearest  police  box  and  then  disappeared, 
leaving  the  old  German  couple  in  the  throes  of  distress. 
A  time-worn  old  church-clock  nearby  now  chimed  out 
one  and  then  two.  The  notes  cut  like  knives.  Mrs. 
Rogaum  began  fearfully  to  cry.  Rogaum  walked  and 
i  blustered  to  himself. 

"It's  a  queer  case,  that,"  said  Officer  Delahanty  to 
Maguire  after  having  reported  the  matter  of  Theresa, 
I  but  referring  solely  to  the  outcast  of  the  doorway  so 
recently  sent  away  and  in  whose  fate  they  were  much 
more  interested.  She  being  a  part  of  the  commercial 
ized  vice  of  the  city,  they  were  curious  as  to  the  cause 
iof  her  suicide.  "I  think  I  know  that  woman.  I  think 
I  know  where  she  came  from.  You  do,  too — Adele's, 
around  the  corner,  eh?  She  didn't  come  into  that 
^doorway  by  herself,  either.  She  was  put  there.  You 
know  how  they  do." 

"You're  right,"  said  Maguire.  "She  was  put  there, 
all  right,  and  that's  just  where  she  come  from,  too." 

The  two  of  them  now  tipped  up  their  noses  and 
cocked  their  eyes  significantly. 

"Let's  go  around,"  added  Maguire. 

They  went,  the  significant  red  light  over  the  transom 
at  68  telling  its  own  story.  Strolling  leisurely  up,  they 
knocked.  At  the  very  first  sound  a  painted  denizen  of 
"he  half -world  opened  the  door. 

"Where's  Adele?"  asked  Maguire  as  the  two,  hats 
;>n  as  usual,  stepped  in. 


220     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

"She's  gone  to  bed." 

"Tell  her  to  come  down." 

They  seated  themselves  deliberately  in  the  gaudy 
mirrored  parlor  and  waited,  conversing  between  them 
selves  in  whispers.  Presently  a  sleepy-looking  woman 
of  forty  in  a  gaudy  robe  of  heavy  texture,  and  slip 
pered  in  red,  appeared. 

"We're  here  about  that  suicide  case  you  had  tonight. 
What  about  it?  Who  was  she?  How'd  she  come  to 
be  in  that  doorway  around  the  corner?  Come,  now," 
Maguire  added,  as  the  madam  assumed  an  air  of 
mingled  injured  and  ignorant  innocence,  "you  know. 
Can  that  stuff!  How  did  she  come  to  take  poison?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  said  the 
woman  with  the  utmost  air  of  innocence.  "I  never 
heard  of  any  suicide." 

"Aw,  come  now,"  insisted  Delahanty,  "the  girl 
around  the  corner.  You  know.  We  know  you've 
got  a  pull,  but  we've  got  to  know  about  this  case,  just 
the  same.  Come  across  now.  It  won't  be  published. 
What  made  her  take  the  poison  ?" 

Under  the  steady  eyes  of  the  officers  the  woman 
hesitated,  but  finally  weakened. 

"Why — why — her  lover  went  back  on  her — that's 
all.  She  got  so  blue  we  just  couldn't  do  anything  with 
her.  I  tried  to,  but  she  wouldn't  listen." 

"Lover,  eh?"  put  in  Maguire  as  though  that  were 
the  most  unheard-of  thing  in  the  world.     "What  was  , 
his  name?" 

"I  don't  know.     You  never  can  tell  that." 

"What  was  her  name — Annie?"  asked  Delahanty 
wisely,  as  though  he  knew  but  was  merely  inquiring 
for  form's  sake. 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     221 

"No— Emily." 

"Well,  how  did  she  come  to  get  over  there,  any- 
low  ?"  inquired  Maguire  most  pleasantly. 

"George  took  her,"  she  replied,  referring  to  a  man- 
Df-all-work  about  the  place. 

Then  little  by  little  as  they  sat  there  the  whole  mis- 
Table  story  came  out,  miserable  as  all  the  wil fulness 
land  error  and  suffering  of  the  world. 

"How  old  was  she?" 

"Oh,  twenty-one." 

"Well,  where'd  she  come  from?" 

"Oh,  here  in  New  York.     Her  family  locked  her 
DUt  one  night,  I  think." 

Something  in  the  way  the  woman  said  this  last 
Drought  old  Rogaum  and  his  daughter  back  to  the 
policemen's  minds.  They  had  forgotten  all  about  her 
3y  now,  although  they  had  turned  in  an  alarm.  Fear- 
ng  to  interfere  too  much  with  this  well-known  and 
oolitically  controlled  institution,  the  two  men  left,  but 
Outside  they  fell  to  talking  of  the  other  case. 
I  "We  ought  to  tell  old  Rogaum  about  her  some  time/' 
hid  Maguire  to  Delahanty  cynically.  "He  locked  his 
ad  out  to-night." 

I  "Yes,  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for  him  to  hear  that," 
•eplied  the  other.  "We'd  better  go  round  there  an' 
>ee  if  his  girl's  back  yet.  She  may  be  back  by  now," 
md  so  they  returned  but  little  disturbed  by  the  joint 
niseries. 

At  Rogaum's  door  they  once  more  knocked  loudly. 

"Is   your   daughter   back   again?"    asked   Maguire 
yhen  a  reply  was  had. 

"Ach,  no,"  replied  the  hysterical  Mrs.  Rogaum,  who 


222     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

was  quite  alone  now.  "My  husband  he  haf  gone  oudt 
again  to  loog  vunce  more.  Oh,  my !  Oh,  my !" 

"Well,  that's  what  you  get  for  lockin'  her  out,"  re 
turned  Maguire  loftily,  the  other  story  fresh  in  his 
mind.  "That  other  girl  downstairs  here  tonight  was 
locked  out  too,  once."  He  chanced  to  have  a  girl- 
child  of  his  own  and  somehow  he  was  in  the  mood  for 
pointing  a  moral.  "You  oughtn't  to  do  anything  like 
that.  Where  d'yuh  expect  she's  goin'  to  if  you  lock 
her  out?" 

Mrs.  Rogaum  groaned.  She  explained  that  it  was 
not  her  fault,  but  anyhow  it  was  carrying  coals  to 
Newcastle  to  talk  to  her  so.  The  advice  was  better 
for  her  husband. 

The  pair  finally  returned  to  the  station  to  see  if  the 
call  had  been  attended  to. 

"Sure,"  said  the  sergeant,  "certainly.  Whaddy  ya 
think?"  and  he  read  from  the  blotter  before  him: 

'  'Look  out  for  girl,  Theresa  Rogaum.  Aged  18; 
height,  about  5,  3;  light  hair,  blue  eyes,  white  cotton 
dress,  trimmed  with  blue  ribbon.  Last  seen  with  lad 
named  Almerting,  about  19  years  of  age,  about  5,  9; 
weight  135  pounds/' 

There  were  other  details  even  more  pointed  and  con 
clusive.  For  over  an  hour  now,  supposedly,  policemen 
from  the  Battery  to  Harlem,  and  far  beyond,  had  been 
scanning  long  streets  and  dim  shadows  for  a  girl  in 
a  white  dress  with  a  youth  of  nineteen, — supposedly. 

Officer  Halsey,  another  of  this  region,  which  took 
in  a  portion  of  Washington  Square,  had  seen  a  good 
many  couples  this  pleasant  summer  evening  since  the 
description  of  Theresa  and  Almerting  had  been  read 
to  him  over  the  telephone,  but  none  that  answered  to 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA    223 

these.  Like  Maguire  and  Delahanty,  he  was  more  or 
less  indifferent  to  all  such  cases,  but  idling  on  a  corner 
near  the  park  at  about  three  a.m.,  a  brother  officer, 
one  Paisly  by  name,  came  up  and  casually  mentioned 
the  missing  pair  also. 

"I  bet  I  saw  that  couple,  not  over  an  hour  ago.  She 
was  dressed  in  white,  and  looked  to  me  as  if  she  didn't 
want  to  be  out.  I  didn't  happen  to  think  at  the  time, 
but  now  I  remember.  They  acted  sort  o'  funny.  She 
did,  anyhow.  They  went  in  this  park  down  at  the 
Fourth  Street  end  there." 

"Supposing  we  beat  it,  then,"  suggested  Halsey, 
weary  for  something  to  do. 

"Sure,"  said  the  other  quickly,  and  together  they 
began  a  careful  search,  kicking  around  in  the  moon 
light  under  the  trees.  The  moon  was  leaning  mod 
erately  toward  the  west,  and  all  the  branches  were 
silvered  with  light  and  dew.  Among  the  flowers,  past 
clumps  of  bushes,  near  the  fountain,  they  searched, 
each  one  going  his  way  alone.  At  last,  the  wandering 
Halsey  paused  beside  a  thick  clump  of  flaming  bushes, 
ruddy,  slightly,  even  in  the  light.  A  murmur  of  voices 
greeted  him,  and  something  very  much  like  the  sound 
of  a  sob. 

"What's  that?"  he  said  mentally,  drawing  near  and 
listening. 

"Why  don't  you  come  on  now?"  said  the  first  of 
the  voices  heard.  "They  won't  let  you  in  any  more. 
You're  with  me,  ain't  you?  What's  the  use  cryin'?" 

No  answer  to  this,  but  no  sobs.  She  must  have 
been  crying  silently. 

"Come  on.    I  can  take  care  of  yuh.    We  can  live  in 


224     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

Hoboken.  I  know  a  place  where  we  can  go  to-night. 
That's  all  right." 

There  was  a  movement  as  if  the  speaker  were  pat 
ting  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"What's  the  use  cryin'?  Don't  you  believe  I  love 
yuh?" 

The  officer  who  had  stolen  quietly  around  to  get  a 
better  view  now  came  closer.  He  wanted  to  see  for 
himself.  In  the  moonlight,  from  a  comfortable  dis 
tance,  he  could  see  them  seated.  The  tall  bushes  were 
almost  all  about  the  bench.  In  the  arms  of  the  youth 
was  the  girl  in  white,  held  very  close.  Leaning  over 
to  get  a  better  view,  he  saw  him  kiss  her  and  hold 
her — hold  her  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  but  yield 
to  him,  whatever  her  slight  disinclination. 

It  was  a  common  affair  at  earlier  hours,  but  rather 
interesting  now.  The  officer  was  interested.  He  crept 
nearer. 

"What  are  you  two  doin'  here?"  he  suddenly  in 
quired,  rising  before  them,  as  though  he  had  not  seen. 

The  girl  tumbled  out  of  her  compromising  position, 
speechless  and  blushing  violently.  The  young  man 
stood  up,  nervous,  but  still  defiant. 

"Aw,  we  were  just  sittin'  here,"  he  replied. 

"Yes?  Well,  say,  what's  your  name?  I  think 
we're  lookin'  for  you  two,  anyhow.  Almerting?" 

"That's  me,"  said  the  youth. 

"And  yours  ?"  he  added,  addressing  Theresa. 

"Theresa  Rogaum,"  replied  the  latter  brokenly,  be 
ginning  to  cry. 

"Well,  you  two'll  have  to  come  along  with  me,"  he 
added  laconically.  "The  Captain  wants  to  see  both  of 
you,"  and  he  marched  them  solemnly  away. 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     225 

"What  for?"  young  Almerting  ventured  to  inquire 
after  a  time,  blanched  with  fright. 

"Never  mind,"  replied  the  policeman  irritably. 
"Come  along,  you'll  find  out  at  the  station  house.  We 
want  you  both.  That's  enough." 

At  the  other  end  of  the  park  Paisly  joined  them, 
and,  at  the  station-house,  the  girl  was  given  a  chair. 
She  was  all  tears  and  melancholy  with  a  modicum  pos 
sibly  of  relief  at  being  thus  rescued  from  the  world. 
Her  companion,  for  all  his  youth,  was  defiant  if  cir 
cumspect,  a  natural  animal  defeated  of  its  aim. 

"Better  go  for  her  father,"  commented  the  sergeant, 
and  by  four  in  the  morning  old  Rogaum,  who  had  still 
been  up  and  walking  the  floor,  was  rushing  station- 
ward.  From  an  earlier  rage  he  had  passed  to  an  al 
most  killing  grief,  but  now  at  the  thought  that  he 
|  might  possibly  see  his  daughter  alive  and  well  once 
more  he  was  overflowing  with  a  mingled  emotion 
which  contained  rage,  fear,  sorrow,  and  a  number 
of  other  things.  What  should  he  do  to  her  if  she 
were  alive?  Beat  her?  Kiss  her?  Or  what?  Ar 
rived  at  the  station,  however,  and  seeing  his  fair  The 
resa  in  the  hands  of  the  police,  and  this  young  stranger 
lingering  near,  also  detained,  he  was  beside  himself 
with  fear,  rage,  affection. 

"You !  You !"  he  exclaimed  at  once,  glaring  at  the 
imperturbable  Almerting,  when  told  that  this  was  the 
young  man  who  was  found  with  his  girl.  Then,  seized 
with  a  sudden  horror,  he  added,  turning  to  Theresa, 
"Vot  haf  you  done?  Oh,  oh!  You!  You!"  he  re 
peated  again  to  Almerting  angrily,  now  that  he  felt 
that  his  daughter  was  safe.  "Come  not  near  my 


226     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

tochter  any  more!  I  vill  preak  your  effery  pone,  du 
teufel,  du!" 

He  made  a  move  toward  the  incarcerated  lover,  but 
here  the  sergeant  interfered. 

"Stop  that,  now,"  he  said  calmly.  "Take  your 
daughter  out  of  here  and  go  home,  or  I'll  lock  you  both 
up.  We  don't  want  any  fighting  in  here.  D'ye  hear? 
Keep  your  daughter  off  the  streets  hereafter,  then  she 
won't  get  into  trouble.  Don't  let  her  run  around  with 
such  young  toughs  as  this."  Almerting  winced. 
"Then  there  won't  anything  happen  to  her.  We'll  do 
whatever  punishing' s  to  be  done." 

"Aw,  what's  eatin'  him!"  commented  Almerting 
dourly,  now  that  he  felt  himself  reasonably  safe  from 
a  personal  encounter.  "What  have  I  done  ?  He  locked 
her  out,  didn't  he  ?  I  was  just  keepin'  her  company  till 
morning." 

"Yes,  we  know  all  about  that,"  said  the  sergeant, 
"and  about  you,  too.  You  shut  up,  or  you'll  go  down 
town  to  Special  Sessions.  I  want  no  guff  out  o'  you." 
Still  he  ordered  the  butcher  angrily  to  be  gone. 

Old  Rogaum  heard  nothing.  He  had  his  daughter. 
He  was  taking  her  home.  She  was  not  dead — not 
even  morally  injured  in  so  far  as  he  could  learn.  He 
was  a  compound  of  wondrous  feelings.  What  to  do 
was  beyond  him. 

At  the  corner  near  the  butcher  shop  they  encoun 
tered  the  wakeful  Maguire,  still  idling,  as  they  passed. 
He  was  pleased  to  see  that  Rogaum  had  his  Theresa 
once  more.  It  raised  him  to  a  high,  moralizing  height. 

"Don't  lock  her  out  any  more,"  he  called  signifi 
cantly.  "That's  what  brought  the  other  girl  to  your 
door,  you  know !" 


OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA     227 

"Vot  iss  dot?"  said  Rogaum. 

"I  say  the  other  girl  was  locked  out.  That's  why 
she  committed  suicide." 

"Ach,  I  know,"  said  the  husky  German  under  his 
breath,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  locking  her  out. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  would  do  until  they  were 
in  the  presence  of  his  crying  wife,  who  fell  upon  The 
resa,  weeping.  Then  he  decided  to  be  reasonably 
lenient. 

"She  vass  like  you,"  said  the  old  mother  to  the  wan 
dering  Theresa,  ignorant  of  the  seeming  lesson  brought 
to  their  very  door.  "She  vass  loog  like  you." 

"I  vill  not  vip  you  now,"  said  the  old  butcher  sol 
emnly,  too  delighted  to  think  of  punishment  after  hav 
ing  feared  every  horror  under  the  sun,  "aber,  go  not 
oudt  any  more.  Keep  off  de  streads  so  late.  I  von't 
haf  it.  Dot  loafer,  aber — let  him  yussed  come  here 
i  some  more !  I  fix  him  P ' 

"No,  no,"  said  the  fat  mother  tearfully,  smoothing 
I  her  daughter's  hair.  "She  vouldn't  run  avay  no  more 
yet,  no,  no."  Old  Mrs.  Rogaum  was  all  mother. 

"Well,  you  wouldn't  let  me  in,"  insisted  Theresa, 
"and  I  didn't  have  any  place  to  go.  What  do  you 
want  me  to  do?  I'm  not  going  to  stay  in  the  house 
all  the  time." 

"I  fix  him !"  roared  Rogaum,  unloading  all  his  rage 
now  on  the  recreant  lover  freely.  "Yussed  let  him 
come  some  more!  Der  penitentiary  he  should  haf!" 

"Oh,  he's  not  so  bad,"  Theresa  told  her  mother, 
almost  a  heroine  now  that  she  was  home  and  safe. 
"He's  Mr.  Almerting,  the  stationer's  boy.  They  live 
here  in  the  next  block." 

"Don't  you  ever  bother  that  girl  again,"  the  ser- 


228     OLD  ROGAUM  AND  HIS  THERESA 

geant  was  saying  to  young  Almerting  as  he  turned 
him  loose  an  hour  later.  "If  you  do,  we'll  get  you, 
and  you  won't  get  off  under  six  months.  Y'  hear  me, 
do  you?" 

"Aw,  I  don't  want  'er,"  replied  the  boy  truculently 
and  cynically.  "Let  him  have  his  old  daughter. 
What'd  he  want  to  lock  'er  out  for  ?  They'd  better  not 
lock  'er  out  again  though,  that's  all  I  say.  I  don't 
want  'er." 

"Beat  it!"  replied  the  sergeant,  and  away  he  went. 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY 
PARLOR? 


TT  was  a  sweltering  noon  in  July.  Gregory,  after 
•*•  several  months  of  meditation  on  the  warning 
given  him  by  his  political  friend,  during  which  time 
nothing  to  substantiate  it  had  occurred,  was  making 
ready  to  return  to  the  seaside  hotel  to  which  his  pres 
ent  prosperity  entitled  him.  It  was  a  great  affair,  the 
Triton,  about  sixty  minutes  from  his  office,  facing  the 
sea  and  amid  the  pines  and  sands  of  the  Island.  His 
wife,  'the  girl,'  as  he  conventionally  referred  to  her, 
had  been  compelled,  in  spite  of  the  plot  which  had  been 
revealed  or  suggested,  owing  to  the  ailing  state  of  their 
child,  to  go  up  to  the  mountains  to  her  mother  for  ad 
vice  and  comfort.  Owing  to  the  imminence  of  the  fall 
campaign,  however,  he  could  not  possibly  leave.  Week 
days  and  Sundays,  and  occasionally  nights,  he  was 
busy  ferreting  out  and  substantiating  one  fact  and  an 
other  in  regard  to  the  mismanagement  of  the  city, 
which  was  to  be  used  as  ammunition  a  little  later  on. 
The  mayor  and  his  "ring/'  as  it  was  called,  was  to  be 
ousted  at  all  costs.  He,  Gregory,  was  certain  to  be  re 
warded  if  that  came  to  pass.  In  spite  of  that  he  was 
eminently  sincere  as  to  the  value  and  even  the  neces 
sity  of  what  he  was  doing.  The  city  was  being  grossly 
mismanaged.  What  greater  labor  than  to  worm  out 
the  details  and  expose  them  to  the  gaze  of  an  abused 
and  irritated  citizenship? 

But  the  enemy  itself  was  not  helpless.     A  gentle- 
229 


23o     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

man  in  the  publishing  business  of  whom  he  had  never 
even  heard  called  to  offer  him  a  position  in  the  Mid 
dle  West  which  would  take  him  out  of  the  city  for 
four  or  five  years  at  the  least,  and  pay  him  six  or  seven 
thousand  dollars  a  year.  On  his  failure  to  be  inter 
ested  some  of  his  mail  began  to  disappear,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  divers  strange  characters 
were  taking  a  peculiar  and  undue  interest  in  his  move 
ments.  Lastly,  one  of  the  politicians  connected  with 
his  own  party  called  to  see  him  at  his  office. 

"You  see,  Gregory,  it's  this  way,"  he  said  after  a 
short  preamble,  "you  have  got  a  line  as  to  what's  go 
ing  on  in  connection  with  that  South  Penyank  land 
transfer.  The  mayor  is  in  on  that,  but  he  is  absolutely 
determined  that  the  public  is  not  going  to  find  it  out, 
and  so  is  his  partner,  Tilney — not  until  after  the  elec 
tion,  anyhow.  They  are  prepared  to  use  some  pretty 
rough  methods,  so  look  out  for  yourself.  You're 
fond  of  your  wife,  are  you?  Well,  keep  her  close 
beside  you,  and  the  kid.  Don't  let  them  get  you  away 
from  her,  even  for  a  moment,  where  you  shouldn't  be. 
You  saw  what  happened  to  Crothers  two  or  three 
years  ago,  didn't  you?  He  was  about  to  expose  that 
Yellow  Point  Ferry  deal,  but  of  course  no  one  knew 
anything  about  that — and  then,  zip! — all  at  once  he 
was  arrested  on  an  old  charge  of  desertion,  an  old  debt 
that  he  had  failed  to  pay  was  produced  and  his 
furniture  seized,  and  his  wife  was  induced  to  leave 
him.  Don't  let  them  catch  you  in  the  same  way.  If 
you  have  any  debts  bring  them  to  us  and  let  us  see 
what  we  can  do  about  them.  And  if  you  are  inter 
ested  in  any  other  woman,  break  it  off,  send  her  away, 
get  rid  of  her." 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    231 

Gregory  viewed  him  with  an  irritated,  half-pitying 
smile. 

"There  isn't  any  other  woman,"  he  said  simply. 
Think  of  his  being  faithless  to  "the  girl"  and  the  kid — 
the  blue-eyed,  pink-toed  kid! 

"Don't  think  I'm  trying  to  pry  into  your  affairs," 
went  on  the  politician.  "I'm  just  telling  you.  If  you 
need  any  further  advice  or  help,  come  to  me.  But 
whatever  you  do,  look  out  for  yourself,"  and  with 
that  he  put  on  his  high  silk  hat  and  departed. 

Gregory  stood  in  the  center  of  his  office  after  his 
visitor  had  gone,  and  gazed  intently  at  the  floor.  Cer 
tainly,  from  what  he  had  discovered  so  far,  he  could 
readily  believe  that  the  mayor  would  do  just  what  his 
friend  had  said.  And  as  for  the  mayor's  friend,  the 
real  estate  plunger,  it  was  plain  from  his  whispered 
history  that  no  tricks  or  brutalities  were  beneath  him. 
Another  politician  had  once  said  in  describing  him 
that  he  would  not  stop  short  of  murder,  but  that  one 
would  never  catch  him  red-handed  or  in  any  other 
way,  and  certainly  that  appeared  to  be  true.  He  was 
wealthier,  more  powerful,  than  he  had  ever  been,  much 
more  so  than  the  mayor. 

Since  he  and  his  wife  had  come  to  this  seaside  hotel 
several  things  had  occurred  which  caused  him  to  think 
that  something  might  happen,  although  there  was  no 
evidence  as  yet  that  his  suspicions  were  well-founded. 
An  unctuous,  over-dressed,  be  jeweled,  semi-sporty 
widow  of  forty  had  arrived,  a  business  woman,  she  in 
dicated  herself  to  be,  conducting  a  highly  successful 
theatrical  agency  in  the  great  city,  and  consequently 
weltering  in  what  one  of  Gregory's  friends  was  wont 
to  describe  as  "the  sinews  of  war."  She  abounded  in 


232     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

brown  and  wine-colored  silks,  brown  slippers  and 
stockings,  a  wealth  of  suspiciously  lustrous  auburn 
hair.  Her  car,  for  she  had  one,  was  of  respectable 
reputation.  Her  skill  and  willingness  to  risk  at  whist 
of  good  report.  She  was,  in  the  parlance  of  the  hotel 
clerks  and  idlers  of  the  Triton  veranda,  a  cheerful  and 
liberal  spender.  Even  while  Mrs.  Gregory  was  at 
Triton  Hall,  Mrs.  Skelton  had  arrived,  making  herself 
comfortable  in  two  rooms  and  bath  on  the  sea  front, 
and  finding  familiar  friends  in  the  manager  and  sev 
eral  stalwart  idlers  who  appeared  to  be  brokers  and 
real  estate  dealers,  and  who  took  a  respectable  interest 
in  golf,  tennis,  and  the  Triton  Grill.  She  was  unctu 
ous,  hearty,  optimistic,  and  neither  Gregory  nor  his 
wife  could  help  liking  her  a  little.  But  before  leaving, 
his  wife  had  casually  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Skelton 
would  be  one  to  engage  in  such  a  plot.  Her  friend 
liness,  while  possible  of  any  interpretation,  was  still 
general  enough  to  be  free  of  suspicion.  She  might  be 
looking  for  just  such  a  situation  as  this,  though — to 
find  Gregory  alone. 

"Do  be  careful,  dear,"  his  wife  cautioned.  "If  you 
become  too  doubtful,  leave  and  go  to  another  place. 
At  least  that  will  compel  them  to  provide  another  set 
of  people."  And  off  she  went,  fairly  serene  in  her 
faith  in  her  husband's  ability  to  manage  the  matter. 

Thus,  much  against  his  will,  at  first,  Gregory  found 
himself  alone.  He  began  to  wonder  if  he  should  leave, 
or  weather  it  out,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself.  Why 
should  he  be  driven  from  the  one  comfortable  hotel 
on  this  nearest  beach,  and  that  when  he  most  needed 
it,  away  from  a  region  where  he  was  regularly  en 
countering  most  of  his  political  friends,  particularly  at 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    233 

week-ends?  For  so  near  a  place  it  had  many  advan 
tages:  a  delightful  golf  course,  several  tennis  courts, 
food  and  rooms  reasonably  well  above  complaint,  and 
a  refreshing  and  delightful  view  of  the  sea  over  a 
broad  lawn.  Besides  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for 
him  to  be  in  the  near-by  city  the  greater  portion  of 
every  single  working  day.  His  peculiar  and  pressing 
investigation  demanded  it  and  a  comfortable  place  to 
rest  and  recuperate  at  night  was  also  imperative. 

"It's  beautiful  here/'  he  said  to  himself  finally, 
"and  here  is  where  I  stick.  I  haven't  a  car,  and  where 
is  there  any  other  place  as  convenient?  Besides,  if 
they're  going  to  follow  me,  they're  going  to  follow 


me." 


In  consequence,  he  traveled  meditatively  back  and 
forth  between  this  place  and  the  city,  thinking  of  what 
might  happen.  Becoming  a  little  doubtful,  he  decided 
to  call  on  Frank  Blount  and  talk  it  over  with  him. 
Blount  was  an  old  newspaper  man  who  had  first 
turned  lawyer  and  then  broker.  Seemingly  clientless 
the  major  portion  of  the  time,  he  still  prospered 
mightily.  A  lorn  bachelor,  he  had  three  clubs,  several 
hotels,  and  a  dozen  country  homes  to  visit,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  a  high  power  car.  Just  now  he  was  held  unduly 
close  to  his  work,  and  so  was  frequenting  this  coast. 
He  liked  golf  and  tennis,  and,  incidentally,  Gregory, 
whom  he  wished  to  see  prosper  though  he  could  not 
quite  direct  him  in  the  proper  way.  Reaching  the  city 
one  morning,  Gregory  betook  him  to  Blount' s  office, 
and  there  laid  the  whole  case  before  him. 

"Now,  that's  the  way  it  is,"  he  concluded,  staring  at 
the  pink  cheeks  and  partially  bald  head  of  his  friend, 


234     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

"and  I  would  like  to  know  what  you  would  do  if  you 
were  in  my  place." 

Blount  gazed  thoughtfully  out  through  the  high 
towers  of  the  city  to  the  blue  sky  beyond,  while  he 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  glass  top  of  his  desk. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  after  a  time,  scratching  his 
cheekbone  thoughtfully,  "I'd  stick  it  out  if  I  were  you. 
If  there  is  to  be  a  woman,  and  she  is  attractive,  you 
might  have  some  fun  out  of  it  without  getting  your 
self  in  any  trouble.  It  looks  like  a  sporty  summer 
proposition  to  me.  Of  course,  you'll  have  to  be  on 
your  guard.  I'd  take  out  a  permit  to  carry  a  revolver 
if  I  were  you.  They'll  hear  of  it  if  they're  up  to  any 
thing,  and  it  won't  cheer  them  any.  In  the  next  place, 
you  ought  to  make  out  a  day-to-day  statement  of  your 
exact  movements,  and  swear  to  it  before  a  notary.  If 
they  hear  of  that  it  won't  cheer  them  any  either,  and  it 
may  make  them  try  to  think  up  something  really 
original. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on,  "I  haven't  so  very  much  to 
do  evenings  and  week-ends,  and  if  you  want  me  to  I'll 
just  be  around  most  of  the  time  in  case  of  trouble.  If 
we're  together  they  can't  turn  much  of  anything  with 
out  one  of  us  knowing  something  about  it,  and  then, 
too,  you'll  have  an  eye-witness."  He  was  wondering 
whether  the  lady  might  not  be  interesting  to  him  also. 
"I'm  over  at  Sunset  Point,  just  beyond  you  there,  and 
if  you  want  me  I'll  come  over  every  evening  and  see 
how  you're  making  out.  If  any  trick  is  turned,  I'd 
like  to  see  how  it  is  done,"  and  he  smiled  in  a  winsome, 
helpful  manner. 

"That's  just  the  thing,"  echoed  Gregory  thought 
fully.  "I  don't  want  any  trick  turned.  I  can't  afford 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     235 

it.  If  anything  should  happen  to  me  just  now  I'd 
never  get  on  my  feet  again  politically,  and  then  there's 
the  wife  and  kid,  and  I'm  sick  of  the  newspaper  busi 
ness/'  and  he  stared  out  of  the  window. 

"Well,  don't  be  worrying  about  it,"  Blount  insisted 
soothingly.  "Just  ^  on  y°ur  guard,  and  if  you 
have  to  stay  in  town  late  any  night,  let  me  know 
and  I'll  come  and  pick  you  up.  Or,  if  I  can't  do  that, 
stay  in  town  yourself.  Go  to  one  of  the  big  hotels, 
where  you'll  feel  thoroughly  safe." 

For  several  days  Gregory,  to  avoid  being  a  nuisance, 
returned  to  the  hotel  early.  Also  he  secured  a  permit, 
and  weighted  his  hip  pocket  with  an  unwieldy  weapon 
which  he  resented,  but  which  he  nevertheless  kept  un 
der  his  pillow  at  night.  His  uncertainty  worked  on  his 
imagination  to  such  an  extent  that  he  began  to  note 
suspicious  moves  on  the  part  of  nearly  everybody. 
Any  new  character  about  the  hotel  annoyed  him.  He 
felt  certain  that  there  was  a  group  of  people  connected 
with  Mrs.  Skelton  who  were  watching  him,  though  he 
could  not  prove  it,  even  to  himself. 

"This  is  ridiculous,"  he  finally  told  himself.  "I'm 
acting  like  a  five-year-old  in  the  dark.  Who's  going 
to  hurt  me?"  And  he  wrote  laughing  letters  to  his 
wife  about  it,  and  tried  to  resume  his  old-time  non 
chalance. 

It  wasn't  quite  possible,  however,  for  not  long 
after  that  something  happened  which  disturbed  him 
greatly.  At  least  he  persuaded  himself  to  that  effect, 
for  that  was  a  characteristic  of  these  incidents — their 
openness  to  another  interpretation  than  the  one  he 
might  fix  on.  In  spite  of  Blount's  advice,  one  night 


236     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

about  nine  he  decided  to  return  to  Triton  Hall,  and 
that  without  calling  his  friend  to  his  aid. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  asked  himself.  "He'll  be 
thinking  I'm  the  biggest  coward  ever,  and  after  all, 
nothing  has  happened  yet,  and  I  doubt  whether  they'd 
go  that  far,  anyhow."  He  consoled  himself  with  the 
idea  that  perhaps  humanity  was  better  than  he  thought. 

But  just  the  same,  as  he  left  the  train  at  Triton  and 
saw  it  glimmering  away  over  the  meadows  eastward, 
he  felt  a  little  uncertain  as  to  his  wisdom  in  this  mat 
ter.  Triton  Station  was  a  lonely  one  at  nearly  all 
times  save  in  the  morning  and  around  seven  at  night, 
and  to-night  it  seemed  especially  so.  Only  he  alighted 
from  the  train.  Most  people  went  to  and  fro  in  their 
cars  by  another  road.  Why  should  he  not  have  done 
as  Blount  had  suggested,  he  now  asked  himself  as  he 
surveyed  the  flat  country  about ; — called  him  to  his  aid, 
or  stayed  in  the  city?  After  all,  hiring  a  car  would 
not  have  been  much  better  either,  as  Blount  had  pointed 
out,  giving  a  possible  lurking  enemy  a  much  sought 
point  of  attack.  No,  he  should  have  stayed  in  town 
or  returned  with  Blount  in  his  car,  and  telling  himself 
this,  he  struck  out  along  the  lonely,  albeit  short,  stretch 
of  road  which  led  to  the  hotel  and  which  was  lighted  by 
only  a  half  dozen  small  incandescent  globes  strung  at 
a  considerable  distance  apart. 

En  route,  and  as  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  it  was 
a  blessed  thing  that  it  was  only  a  few  hundred  yards 
and  that  he  was  well-armed  and  fairly  well  constructed 
physically  for  a  contest,  a  car  swerved  about  a  bend 
in  the  road  a  short  distance  ahead  and  stopped.  Two 
men  got  out  and,  in  the  shadow  back  of  the  lights, 
which  were  less  flaring  than  was  usual,  began  to  ex- 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    237 

amine  a  wheel.  It  seemed  odd  to  him  on  the  instant 
that  its  headlights  were  so  dim.  Why  should  they 
be  so  dim  at  this  time  of  night  and  why  should  this 
strange  car  stop  just  here  at  this  lonely  bend  just  as 
he  was  approaching  it?  Also  why  should  he  feel 
so  queer  about  it  or  them,  for  at  once  his  flesh  be 
gan  to  creep  and  his  hair  to  tingle.  As  he  neared  the 
car  he  moved  to  give  it  as  wide  a  berth  as  the  road 
would  permit.  But  now  one  of  the  men  left  the  wheel 
and  approached  him.  Instantly,  with  almost  an  in 
voluntary  urge,  he  brought  the  revolver  out  of  his 
hip  pocket  and  stuffed  it  in  his  coat  pocket.  At  the 
same  time  he  stopped  and  called  to  the  stranger : 

"Stay  right  where  you  are,  Mister.  I'm  armed,  and 
I  don't  want  you  to  come  near  me.  If  you  do  I'll 
shoot.  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  or  whether  you're 
a  friend  or  not,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  move.  Now, 
if  there's  anything  you  want,  ask  it  from  where  you 


are." 


The  stranger  stopped  where  he  stood,  seemingly  sur 
prised. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  for  a  match,"  he  said,  "and 
the  way  to  Trager's  Point." 

"Well,  I  haven't  a  match,"  returned  Gregory 
savagely,  "and  Trager's  Point  is  out  that  way.  There's 
the  hotel  ...  if  you're  coming  from  there,  why 
didn't  you  ask  for  directions  there,  and  for  matches, 
too  ?"  He  paused,  while  the  man  in  the  shadow  seemed 
to  examine  him  curiously. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  returned  indifferently.  "I  don't 
want  anything  you  don't  want  to  give,"  but  instead  of 
returning  to  the  car,  he  stood  where  he  was,  following 
Gregory  with  his  eyes. 


238     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

Gregory's  skin  seemed  to  rise  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  like  the  fur  of  a  cat.  He  fairly  tingled  as  he 
drew  his  revolver  from  his  pocket  and  waved  it  omi 
nously  before  him. 

"Now,  I'm  going  to  walk  around  you  two,"  he 
called,  "and  I  want  you  to  stand  right  where  you  are. 
I  have  you  covered,  and  at  the  first  move  I'll  shoot. 
You  won't  have  any  trouble  out  of  me  if  you're  not 
looking  for  it,  but  don't  move,"  and  he  began  orient 
ing  his  own  position  so  as  to  keep  them  directly  in 
range  of  his  eyes  and  weapon. 

"Don't  move!"  he  kept  calling  until  he  was  well  up 
the  road,  and  then  suddenly,  while  the  men,  possibly 
in  astonishment,  were  still  looking  at  him,  turned  and 
ran  as  fast  as  he  could,  reaching  the  hotel  steps  breath 
less  and  wet. 

"That's  the  last  lone  trip  for  me,"  he  said  solemnly 
to  himself. 

When  he  spoke  to  Blount  about  it  the  latter  seemed 
inclined  to  pooh-pooh  his  fears.  Why  should  any 
one  want  to  choose  any  such  open  place  to  kill  or  way 
lay  another?  There  might  have  been  other  passen 
gers  on  the  train.  A  stray  auto  might  be  coming 
along  there  at  any  time.  The  men  might  have  wanted 
a  match,  and  not  have  been  coming  from  the  hotel  at 
all.  There  was  another  road  there  which  did  not  turn 
in  at  the  hotel. 

Still  Gregory  was  inclined  to  believe  that  harm  had 
been  intended  him — he  could  scarcely  say  why  to  him 
self — just  plain  intuition,  he  contended. 

And  then  a  day  or  two  later — all  the  more  signifi 
cant  now  because  of  this  other  incident — Mrs.  Skelton 
seemed  to  become  more  and  more  thoughtful  as  to 


.WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     239 

his  comfort  and  well-being.  She  took  her  meals  at 
one  of  the  tables  commanding  a  view  of  the  sea,  and 
with  (most  frequently)  one  or  the  other,  or  both, 
broker  friends  as  companions,  to  say  nothing  of  occa 
sional  outside  friends.  But  usually  there  was  a 
fourth  empty  chair,  and  Gregory  was  soon  invited  to 
occupy  that,  and  whenever  Blount  was  present,  a  fifth 
was  added.  At  first  he  hesitated,  but  urged  on  by 
Blount,  who  was  amused  by  her,  he  accepted.  Blount 
insisted  that  she  was  a  comic  character.  She  was 
so  dressy,  sporty,  unctuous,  good-natured — the  very 
best  kind  of  a  seaside  companion. 

"Why,  man,  she's  interesting,"  the  latter  insisted 
one  night  as  they  were  taking  a  ride  after  dinner. 
"Quite  a  sporty  'fair  and  forty/  that.  I  like  her.  I 
really  do.  She' 3  probably  a  crook,  but  she  plays 
bridge  well,  and  she's  good  at  golf.  Does  she  try 
to  get  anything  out  of  you?" 

"Not  a  thing,  that  I  can  see/'  replied  Gregory.  "She 
seems  to  be  simple  enough.  She's  only  been  here  about 
three  weeks." 

"Well,  we'd  better  see  what  we  can  find  out  about 
her.  I  have  a  hunch  that  she's  in  on  this,  but  I  can't 
be  sure.  It  looks  as  though  she  might  be  one  of  Til- 
ney's  stool  pigeons.  But  let's  play  the  game  and  see 
how  it  comes  out.  I'll  be  nice  to  her  for  your  sake, 
and  you  do  the  same  for  mine." 

Under  the  warming  influence  of  this  companionship, 
things  seemed  to  develop  fairly  rapidly.  It  was  only 
a  day  or  two  later,  and  after  Gregory  had  seated  him 
self  at  Mrs.  Skelton's  table,  that  she  announced  with 
a  great  air  of  secrecy  and  as  though  it  were  hidden  and 
rather  important  information,  that  a  friend  of  hers,  a 


240     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

very  clever  Western  girl  of  some  position  and  money, 
one  Imogene  Carle  of  Cincinnati,  no  less,  a  daughter 
of  the  very  wealthy  Brayton  Carle's  of  that  city,  was 
coming  to  this  place  to  stay  for  a  little  while.  Mrs. 
Skelton,  it  appeared,  had  known  her  parents  in  that 
city  fifteen  years  before.  Imogene  was  her  owny  own- 
est  pet.  She  was  now  visiting  the  Wilson  Fletchers 
at  Gray's  Cove,  on  the  Sound,  but  Mrs.  Skelton  had 
prevailed  upon  her  parents  to  let  her  visit  her  here  for 
a  while.  She  was  only  twenty,  and  from  now  on  she, 
Mrs.  Skelton,  was  to  be  a  really,  truly  chaperone. 
Didn't  they  sympathize  with  her?  And  if  they  were 
all  very  nice — and  with  this  a  sweeping  glance  included 
them  all — they  might  help  entertain  her.  Wouldn't 
that  be  fine?  She  was  a  darling  of  a  girl,  clever,  mag 
netic,  a  good  dancer,  a  pianist — in  short,  various  and 
sundry  things  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  But,  above 
all  other  things,  she  was  really  very  beautiful,  with  a 
wealth  of  brown  hair,  brown  eyes,  a  perfect  skin,  and 
the  like.  Neither  Blount  nor  Gregory  offered  the 
other  a  single  look  during  this  recital,  but  later  on, 
meeting  on  the  great  veranda  which  faced  the  sea, 
Blount  said  to  him,  "Well,  what  do  you  think?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it's  the  one.  Well,  she  tells  it  well. 
It's  interesting  to  think  that  she  is  to  be  so  perfect, 
isn't  it?"  he  laughed. 

A  few  days  later  the  fair  visitor  put  in  an  appear 
ance,  and  she  was  all  that  Mrs.  Skelton  had  promised, 
and  more.  She  was  beautiful.  Gregory  saw  her  for 
the  first  time  as  he  entered  the  large  dining  room  at 
seven.  She  was,  as  Mrs.  Skelton  had  described  her, 
young,  certainly  not  more  than  twenty-one  at  most. 
Her  eyes  were  a  light  gray-brown,  and  her  hair  and 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     241 

$kin  and  hands  were  full  of  light.  She  seemed  simple 
md  unpretentious,  laughing,  gay,  not  altogether  fine 
>r  perfect,  but  fairly  intelligent,  and  good  to  look  at — 
ery.  She  was  at  Mrs.  Skelton's  table,  the  brokers 
3aying  her  marked  attention,  and,  at  sight,  Blount 
iked  her,  too. 

"Say,"  he  began,  "some  beauty,  eh?  I'll  have  to 
>ave  you  from  yourself,  I  fancy.  I'll  tell  you  how 

'll  work  it.  You  save  me,  and  I'll  save  you.  The 
old  lady  certainly  knows  how  to  select  'em,  apparently, 
(and  so  does  Tilney.  Well  now,  my  boy,  look  out!" 
jand  he  approached  with  the  air  of  one  who  was 
anxious  to  be  a  poor  stricken  victim  himself. 

Gregory  had  to  laugh.  However  much  he  might  be 
on  his  guard,  he  was  interested,  and  as  if  to  heighten 
this  she  paid  more  attention  to  Mrs.  Skelton  and  her 
jtwo  friends  than  she  did  to  Gregory  or  Blount.  She 
I  was,  or  pretended  to  be  absolutely  sincere,  and  igno- 
jrant  of  her  possible  role  as  a  siren,  and  they  in  turn 
pretended  to  accept  her  at  her  own  valuation,  only 
Blount  announced  after  dinner  very  gaily  that  she 
might  siren  him  all  she  blanked  pleased.  He  was 
ready.  By  degrees,  however,  even  during  this  first 
and  second  evening,  Gregory  began  to  feel  that  he 
was  the  one.  He  caught  her  looking  at  him  slyly 
or  shyly,  or  both,  and  he  insisted  to  himself  stubbornly 
and  even  vainly  enough  that  he  was  her  intended 
victim.  When  he  suggested  as  much  to  Blount  the 
other  merely  laughed. 

"Don't  be  so  vain,"  he  said.  "You  may  not  be.  I 
wish  I  were  in  your  place.  I'll  see  if  I  can't  help 
take  her  attention  from  you,"  and  he  paid  as  much 
attention  to  her  as  any  one. 


242     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

However,  Gregory's  mind  was  not  to  be  disabused 
He  watched  her  narrowly,  while  she  on  her  part  chat 
tered  gaily  of  many  things — her  life  the  winter  before 
in  Cincinnati,  the  bathing  at  Beachampton  where  she 
had  recently  been,  a  yachting  trip  she  had  been 
promised,  tennis,  golf.  She  was  an  expert  at  tennis, 
as  she  later  proved,  putting  Gregory  in  a  heavy  per 
spiration  whenever  he  played  with  her,  and  keeping 
him  on  the  jump.  He  tried  to  decide  for  himself  at 
this  time  whether  she  was  making  any  advances,  but 
could  not  detect  any.  She  was  very  equitable  in  the 
distribution  of  her  favors,  and  whenever  the  dancing 
began  in  the  East  room  took  as  her  first  choice  one  of 
the  brokers,  and  then  Blount. 

The  former,  as  did  Mrs.  Skelton  and  the  brokers, 
had  machines,  and  by  her  and  them,  in  spite  of  the 
almost  ever-present  Blount,  Gregory  was  invited  to 
be  one  of  a  party  in  one  or  the  other  of  their  cars 
whenever  they  were  going  anywhere  of  an  afternoon 
or  evening.  He  was  suspicious  of  them,  however, 
and  refused  their  invitations  except  when  Blount  was 
on  the  scene  and  invited,  when  he  was  willing  enough 
to  accept.  Then  there  were  whist,  pinochle,  or  poker 
games  in  the  hotel  occasionally,  and  in  these  Gregory 
as  well  as  Blount,  when  he  was  there,  were  wont  to 
join,  being  persistently  invited.  Gregory  did  not 
dance,  and  Imogene  ragged  him  as  to  this.  Why 
didn't  he  learn?  It  was  wonderful!  She  would 
teach  him !  As  she  passed  amid  the  maze  of  dancers 
at  times  he  could  not  help  thinking  how  graceful  she 
was,  how  full  of  life  and  animal  spirits,  Blount  saw 
this  and  teased  him,  at  the  same  time  finding  her 
very  companionable  and  interesting  himself.  Gregory 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    243 

could  not  help  thinking  what  a  fascinating,  what  an 
amazing  thing,  really,  it  was  (providing  it  were  true) 
that  so  dark  a  personality  as  Tilney  could  secure  such 
i an  attractive  girl  to  do  his  vile  work.  Think  of  it, 
only  twenty-one,  beautiful,  able  to  further  herself  in 
many  ways  no  doubt,  and  yet  here  she  was  under  sus- 
ipicion  of  him,  a  trickster  possibly.  What  could  be 
jthe  compulsion,  the  reward? 

"My  boy,  you  don't  know  these  people/'  Blount  was 
always  telling  him.  "They're  the  limit.  In  politics 
you  can  get  people  to  do  anything — anything.  It 
isn't  like  the  rest  of  life  or  business,  it's  just  politics, 
that's  all.  It  seems  a  cynical  thing  to  say,  but  it's 
true.  Look  at  your  own  investigations!  What  do 
they  show?" 

"I  know,  but  a  girl  like  that  now "  replied 

Gregory  solemnly. 

But  after  all,  as  he  insisted  to  Blount,  they  did  not 
know  that  there  was  anything  to  all  this.  She  might 
and  she  might  not  be  a  siren.  It  might  be  possible 
that  both  of  them  were  grossly  misjudging  her  and 
other  absolutely  innocent  people. 

So  far,  all  that  they  had  been  able  to  find  out  con 
cerning  Mrs.  Skelton  was  that  she  was,  as  she  repre 
sented  herself  to  be,  the  successful  owner  and  man 
ager  of  a  theatrical  agency.  She  might  have  known 
the  better  days  and  connections  which  she  boasted. 
Gregory  felt  at  times  as  though  his  brain  were  whirl 
ing,  like  a  man  confronted  by  enemies  in  the  dark, 
fumbling  and  uncertain,  but  he  and  Blount  both  agreed 
that  the  best  thing  was  to  stay  here  and  see  it  through, 
come  what  might.  It  was  a  good  game  even  as  it 
stood,  interesting,  very.  It  showed,  as  Blount  pointed 


244     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

out  to  him,  a  depth  to  this  political  mess  which  he 
was  attempting  to  expose  which  previously  even  he 
had  not  suspected. 

"Stick  by,"  the  other  insisted  sport-lovingly.  "You 
don't  know  what  may  come  of  this.  It  may  provide 
you  the  very  club  you're  looking  for.  Win  her  over 
to  your  side  if  you  can.  Why  not?  She  might  really 
fall  for  you.  Then  see  what  comes  of  it.  You  can't 
be  led  into  any  especial  trap  with  your  eyes  open." 

Gregory  agreed  to  all  this  after  a  time.  Besides, 
this  very  attractive  girl  was  beginning  to  appeal  to 
him  in  a  very  subtle  way.  He  had  never  known  a 
woman  like  this  before — never  even  seen  one.  It  was 
a  very  new  and  attractive  game,  of  sorts.  He  began 
to  spruce  up  and  attempt  to  appear  a  little  gallant 
himself.  A  daily  report  of  his  movements  was  being 
filed  each  morning,  though.  Every  night  he  returned 
with  Blount  in  his  car,  or  on  an  early  train.  There 
was  scarcely  a  chance  for  a  compromising  situation, 
and  still  there  might  be — who  knows? 

On  other  evenings,  after  the  fashion  of  seaside 
hotel  life,  Gregory  and  Imogene  grew  a  little  more 
familiar.  Gregory  learned  that  she  played  and  sang, 
and,  listening  to  her,  that  she  was  of  a  warm  and  even 
sensuous  disposition.  She  was  much  more  sophisti 
cated  than  she  had  seemed  at  first,  as  he  could  now 
see,  fixing  her  lips  in  an  odd  inviting  pout  at  times 
and  looking  alluringly  at  one  and  another,  himself 
included.  Both  Blount  and  himself,  once  the  novelty 
of  the  supposed  secret  attack  had  worn  off,  ventured 
to  jest  with  her  about  it,  or  rather  to  hint  vaguely  as 
to  her  mission. 

"Well,  how  goes  the  great  game  to-night?"  Blount 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    245 

once  asked  her  during  her  second  or  third  week,  com 
ing  up  to  where  she  and  Gregory  were  sitting  amid 
the  throng  on  the  general  veranda,  and  eyeing  her 
in  a  sophisticated  or  smilingly  cynical  way. 

"What  game?"  She  looked  up  in  seemingly  com 
plete  innocence. 

"Oh,  snaring  the  appointed  victim.  Isn't  that  what 
all  attractive  young  women  do?" 

"Are  you  referring  to  me?"  she  inquired  with  con^ 
siderable  hauteur  and  an  air  of  injured  innocence. 
"I'd  have  you  know  that  I  don't  have  to  snare  any 
one,  and  particularly  not  a  married  man."  Her  teeth 
gleamed  maliciously. 

Both  Gregory  and  Blount  were  watching  her  closely. 

"Oh,  of  course  not.  Not  a  married  man,  to  be  sure. 
And  I  wasn't  referring  to  you  exactly — just  life,  you 
know,  the  game." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  replied  sweetly.  "I'm  jesting, 
too."  Both  Gregory  and  Blount  laughed. 

"Well,  she  got  away  with  it  without  the  tremor  of 
an  eyelash,  didn't  she?"  Blount  afterward  observed, 
and  Gregory  had  to  agree  that  she  had. 

Again,  it  was  Gregory  who  attempted  a  reference  of 
this  kind.  She  had  come  out  after  a  short  instru 
mental  interpretation  at  the  piano,  where,  it  seemed  to 
him,  she  had  been  posing  in  a  graceful  statuesque  way 
— for  whose  benefit  ?  He  knew  that  she  knew  he  could 
see  her  from  where  he  sat. 

"It's  pretty  hard  work,  without  much  reward,"  he 
suggested  seemingly  idly. 

"What  is?  I  don't  quite  understand,"  and  she  looked 
at  him  questioningly. 

"No?"  he  smiled  in  a  light  laughing  manner.  "Well, 


246     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

that's  a  cryptic  way  I  have.  I  say  things  like  that.  Just 
a  light  hint  at  a  dark  plot,  possibly.  You  mustn't 
mind  me.  You  wouldn't  understand  unless  you  know 
what  I  know." 

"Well,  what  is  it  you  know,  then,  that  I  don't?"  she 
inquired. 

"Nothing  definite  yet.     Just  an  idea.     Don't  mind 


me." 


"Really,  you  are  very  odd,  both  you  and  Mr.  Blount. 
You  are  always  saying  such  odd  things  and  then  add 
ing  that  you  don't  mean  anything.  And  what's  cryp 
tic?" 

Gregory,  still  laughing  at  her,  explained. 

"Do  you  know,  you're  exceedingly  interesting  to  me 
as  a  type.  I'm  watching  you  all  the  while." 

"Yes?"  she  commented,  with  a  lifting  of  the  eye 
brows  and  a  slight  distention  of  the  eyes.  "That's  in 
teresting.  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  as  to  what 
type  I  am?" 

"No,  not  quite  yet.  But  if  you're  the  type  I  think 
you  are,  you're  very  clever.  I'll  have  to  hand  you  the 
palm  on  that  score." 

"Really,  you  puzzle  me,"  she  said  seriously.  "Truly, 
you  do.  I  don't  understand  you  at  all.  What  is  it  you 
are  talking  about?  If  it's  anything  that  has  any  sense 
in  it  I  wish  you'd  say  it  out  plain,  and  if  not  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  say  it  at  all." 

Gregory  stared.  There  was  an  odd  ring  of  defiance 
in  her  voice. 

"Please  don't  be  angry,  will  you?"  he  said,  slightly 
disconcerted.  "I'm  just  teasing,  not  talking  sense." 

She  arose  and  walked  off,  while  he  strolled  up  and 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    247 

down  the  veranda  looking  for  Blount.  When  he  found 
him,  he  narrated  his  experience. 

"Well,  it's  just  possible  that  we  are  mistaken.  You 
never  can  tell.  Give  her  a  little  more  rope.  Some 
thing's  sure  to  develop  soon." 

And  thereafter  it  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Skelton  and 
some  others  might  be  helping  her  in  some  subtle  way 
about  something,  the  end  or  aim  of  which  he  could  not 
be  quite  sure.  He  was  in  no  way  disposed  to  flatter 
himself,  and  yet  it  seemed  at  times  as  if  he  were  the 
object  of  almost  invisible  machinations.  In  spite  of 
what  had  gone  before,  she  still  addressed  him  in  a 
friendly  way,  and  seemed  not  to  wish  to  avoid  him,  but 
rather  to  be  in  his  vicinity  at  all  times. 

A  smug,  dressy,  crafty  Jew  of  almost  minute  di 
mensions  arrived  on  the  scene  and  took  quarters  some 
where  in  the  building,  coming  and  going  and  seeming 
never  to  know  Mrs.  Skelton  or  her  friends,  and  yet 
one  day,  idling  across  some  sand  dunes  which  skirted 
an  adjacent  inlet,  he  saw  them,  Imogene  and  the  ant- 
like  Jew,  walking  along  together.  He  was  so  astounded 
that  he  stopped  in  amazement.  His  first  thought  was 
to  draw  a  little  nearer  and  to  make  very  sure,  but 
realizing,  as  they  walked  slowly  in  his  direction,  that 
he  could  not  be  mistaken,  he  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  That 
evening  Blount  was  taken  in  on  the  mystery,  and  at 
dinner  time,  seeing  the  Hebrew  enter  and  seat  himself 
in  state  at  a  distant  table,  he  asked  casually,  "A  new 
comer,  isn't  he?" 

Mrs.  Skelton,  Imogene,  and  the  one  broker  present, 
surveyed  the  stranger  with  curious  but  unacquainted 
indifference. 

"Haven't  the  slightest  idea,"  answered  the  broker. 


248     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

"Never  saw  him  before.  Cloaks  and  suits,  I'll  lay  a 
thousand." 

"He  looks  as  though  he  might  be  rich,  whoever  he 
is,"  innocently  commented  Imogene. 

"I  think  he  came  Thursday.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be 
any  one  in  particular,  that's  sure,"  added  Mrs.  Skel 
ton  distantly,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

Gregory  was  tempted  to  accuse  the  young  woman 
and  her  friends  then  and  there  of  falsehood,  but  he 
decided  to  wait  and  study  her.  This  was  certainly 
becoming  interesting.  If  they  could  lie  like  that,  then 
something  was  surely  in  the  air.  So  she  was  a  trick 
ster,  after  all,  and  she  was  so  charming.  His  interest 
in  her  and  Mrs.  Skelton  and  their  friends  grew  apace. 

And  then  came  the  matter  of  the  mysterious  blue 
racer,  or  "trailer,"  as  Gregory  afterward  came  to  call 
it,  a  great  hulking  brute  of  a  car,  beautifully,  even 
showily,  made,  and  with  an  engine  that  talked  like  no 
other.  There  was  a  metallic  ring  about  it  which 
seemed  to  carry  a  long  way  through  the  clear  air  and 
over  the  sands  which  adjoined  the  sea.  It  was  the 
possession,  so  he  learned  later  through  Mrs.  Skelton, 
of  one  of  four  fortunate  youths  who  were  summering 
at  the  next  hotel  west,  about  a  mile  away.  The  owner, 
one  Castleman  by  name,  the  son  and  heir  to  a  very 
wealthy  family,  was  a  friend  of  hers  whom  she  had 
first  met  in  a  commercial  way  in  the  city.  They  came 
over  after  Imogene's  arrival,  she  explained,  to  help 
entertain,  and  they  invariably  came  in  this  car. 
Castleman  and  his  friends,  smart,  showy  youths  all, 
played  tennis  and  bridge,  and  knew  all  the  latest  shows 
and  dances  and  drinks.  They  were  very  gay  looking, 
at  least  three  of  them,  and  were  inclined  to  make  much 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    249 

of  Imogene,  though,  as  Mrs.  Skelton  cautiously  con 
fided  to  Gregory  after  a  time,  she  did  not  propose  to 
allow  it.  Imogene's  parents  might  not  like  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  Gregory  and  Blount,  being  sober  men 
both  arid  of  excellent  discretion,  were  much  more 
welcome ! 

Almost  every  day  thereafter  Mrs.  Skelton  would  go 
for  a  ride  in  her  own  car  or  that  of  Castleman,  taking 
Gregory  if  he  would,  and  Imogene  for  companions. 
Blount,  however,  as  he  explicitly  made  clear  at  the 
very  beginning,  was  opposed  to  this. 

"Don't  ever  be  alone  with  her,  I  tell  you,  or  just  in 
the  company  of  her  and  her  friends  anywhere  except 
on  this  veranda.  They're  after  you,  and  they're  not 
rinding  it  easy,  and  they're  beginning  to  work  hard. 
They'll  give  themselves  away  in  some  way  pretty  soon, 
just  as  sure  as  you're  sitting  there.  They  want  to  cut 
me  out,  but  don't  let  them  do  it — or  if  you  do,  get 
some  one  in  my  place.  You  don't  know  where  they'll 
take  you.  That's  the  way  people  are  framed.  Take 
me,  or  get  them  to  use  my  machine  and  you  take  some 
other  man.  Then  you  can  regulate  the  conditions 
partially,  anyhow." 

Gregory  insisted  that  he  had  no  desire  to  make  any 
other  arrangements,  and  so,  thereafter,  whenever  an 
invitation  was  extended  to  him,  Blount  was  always 
somehow  included,  although,  as  he  could  see,  they  did 
not  like  it.  Not  that  Imogene  seemed  to  mind,  but 
Mrs.  Skelton  always  complained,  "Must  we  wait  for 
him?"  or  "Isn't  it  possible,  ever,  to  go  anywhere  with 
out  him?" 

Gregory  explained  how  it  was.  Blount  was  an  old 
and  dear  friend  of  his.  They  were  practically  spend- 


250     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

ing  the  summer  together.  Blount  had  nothing  to  do 
just  now.  .  .  .  They  seemed  to  take  it  all  in  the 
best  part,  and  thereafter  Blount  was  always  ready,  and 
even  willing  to  suggest  that  they  come  along  with  him 
in  his  car. 

But  the  more  these  accidental  prearrangements  oc 
curred,  the  more  innocently  perverse  was  Mrs.  Skel- 
ton  in  proposing  occasional  trips  of  her  own.  There 
was  an  interesting  walk  through  the  pines  and  across 
the  dunes  to  a  neighboring  hotel  which  had  a  delight 
ful  pavilion,  and  this  she  was  always  willing  to  essay 
with  just  Gregory.  Only,  whenever  he  agreed  to  this, 
and  they  were  about  to  set  out,  Imogene  would  always 
appear  and  would  have  to  be  included.  Then  Mrs. 
Skelton  would  remember  that  she  had  forgotten  her 
parasol  or  purse  or  handkerchief,  and  would  return 
for  it,  leaving  Imogene  and  Gregory  to  stroll  on  to 
gether.  But  Gregory  would  always  wait  until  Mrs. 
Skelton  returned.  He  was  not  to  be  entrapped  like 
this. 

By  now  he  and  Imogene,  in  spite  of  this  atmosphere 
of  suspicion  and  uncertainty,  had  become  very  friendly. 
She  liked  him,  he  could  see  that.  She  looked  at  him 
with  a  slight  widening  of  the  eyes  and  a  faint  disten- 
tion  of  the  nostrils  at  times,  which  spelled — what? 
And  when  seated  with  him  in  the  car,  or  anywhere 
else,  she  drew  near  him  in  a  gently  inclusive  and  sym 
pathetic  and  coaxing  way.  She  had  been  trying  to 
teach  him  to  dance  of  late,  and  scolding  him  in  almost 
endearing  phrases  such  as  "Now,  you  bad  boy,"  or 
"Oh,  butterfingers !"  (when  once  he  had  dropped 
something,),  or  "Big,  clumsy  one — how  big  and  strong 
you  really  are.  I  can  scarcely  guide  you/' 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    251 

And  to  him,  in  spite  of  all  her  dark  chicane,  she  was 
really  beautiful,  and  so  graceful !  What  a  complexion, 
he  said  to  himself  on  more  than  one  occasion.  How 
light  and  silken  her  hair!  And  her  eyes,  hard  and 
gray-brown,  and  yet  soft,  too — to  him.  Her  nose  was 
so  small  and  straight,  and  her  lip  line  so  wavily  cut, 
like  an  Englishwoman's,  full  and  drooping  in  the 
center  of  the  upper  lip.  And  she  looked  at  him  so 
when  they  were  alone !  It  was  disturbing. 

But  as  to  the  Blue  Trailer  on  these  careening  nights. 
Chancing  one  night  to  be  invited  by  Mrs.  Skelton  for 
a  twenty-five-mile  run  to  Bayside,  Blount  accompany 
ing  them,  they  had  not  gone  ten  miles,  it  seemed  to 
him,  when  the  hum  of  a  peculiarly  and  powerfully 
built  motor  came  to  him.  It  was  like  a  distant  bee 
buzzing,  or  a  hornet  caught  under  a  glass.  There 
was  something  fierce  about  it,  savage.  On  the  in 
stant  he  recalled  it  now,  recognized  it  as  the  great  blue 
machine  belonging  to  young  Castleman.  Why  should 
he  be  always  hearing  it,  he  asked,  when  they  were  out? 
And  then  quite  thoughtlessly  he  observed  to  Imogene : 

"That  sounds  like  Castleman's  car,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  does,  doesn't  it?"  she  innocently  replied.  "I 
wonder  if  it  could  be." 

Nothing  caused  him  to  think  any  more  about  it  just 
then,  but  another  time  when  he  was  passing  along  a 
distant  road  he  heard  its  motor  nearby  on  another 
road,  and  then  it  passed  them.  Again,  it  brought  its 
customary  group  to  the  same  inn  in  which  he  and 
Blount  and  Imogene  and  Mrs.  Skelton  were. 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  just  what  it  meant.  The 
last  time  he  had  heard  it,  and  every  time  before  that, 
he  now  remembered,  its  sound  had  been  followed  by  its 


252     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

appearance  at  some  roadside  inn  or  hotel  whenever  he 
Imogene  and  Blount  happened  to  be  in  the  same  party ; 
and  it  always  brought  with  it  this  selfsame  group  of 
young  men  ("joy  riders,"  they  called  themselves), 
accidentally  happening  in  on  them,  as  they  said.  And 
now  he  remembered  (and  this  fact  was  corroborated 
by  the  watchful  Blount)  that  if  the  car  had  not  been 
heard,  and  they  had  not  appeared,  either  Mrs.  Skelton 
or  Imogene  invariably  sought  the  ladies'  retiring  room 
once  they  had  reached  their  destination,  if  they  had 
one,  when  later  the  car  would  be  heard  tearing  along 
in  the  distance  and  the  "joy  riders"  would  arrive. 
But  what  for?  How  to  compromise  him  exactly,  if 
at  all? 

One  night  after  Mrs.  Skelton  had  left  them  in  one 
of  these  inns,  but  before  the  joy  riders  had  arrived, 
Gregory  was  sitting  at  the  edge  of  a  balcony  over 
looking  a  silent  grove  of  pines  when  suddenly  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  it  coming  in  the  distance, 
this  great  rumbling  brute,  baying  afar  off,  like  a  blood 
hound  on  the  scent.  There  was  something  so  eerie, 
uncanny  about  it  or  about  the  night,  which  made  it 
so.  And  then  a  few  moments  later  it  appeared,  and 
the  four  cronies  strolled  in,  smart  and  summery  in 
their  appearance,  seemingly  surprised  to  find  them  all 
there.  Gregory  felt  a  bit  cold  and  chill  at  the  sub 
tlety  of  it  all.  How  horrible  it  was,  trailing  a  man 
in  this  way !  How  tremendous  the  depths  of  politics, 
how  important  the  control  of  all  the  great  seething 
cities'  millions,  to  these  men — Tilney  and  his  friends, 
— if  they  could  find  it  important  to  plot  against  one 
lone  investigating  man  like  this!  Their  crimes! 
Their  financial  robberies!  How  well  he  knew  some 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    253 

bf  them — and  how  near  he  was  to  being  able  to  prove 
lome  of  them  and  drive  them  out,  away  from  the  pub 
lic  treasury  and  the  emoluments  and  honors  of  office ! 

That  was  why  he  was  so  important  to  them  now — 
|pe  a  self -established  newspaperman  with  a  self -estab 
lished  investigating  bureau.  Actually,  it  was  villain- 
bus,  so  dark  and  crafty.  What  were  they  planning, 
Ihese  two  smiling  women  at  his  side  and  these  four 
imart  rounders,  with  their  pink  cheeks  and  affable 
manners?  What  could  they  want  of  him  really? 
How  would  it  all  end? 

As  Mrs.  Skelton,  Imogene,  Blount  and  himself  were 
preparing  to  return,  and  Castleman  and  his  friends 
kere  entering  their  own  car,  a  third  party  hitherto 
.jinknown  to  Blount  or  Gregory  appeared  and  engaged 
the  two  women  in  conversation,  finally  persuading 
Jhem  to  return  with  them  in  their  car.  Mrs.  Skelton 
thereupon  apologized  and  explained  that  they  were  old 
friends  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time,  and 
that  they  would  all  meet  at  the  hotel  later  for  a  game 
of  bridge.  Blount  and  Gregory,  left  thus  to  them 
selves,  decided  to  take  a  short  cut  to  a  nearby  turnpike 
po  as  to  beat  them  home.  The  move  interested  them, 
Ithough  they  could  not  explain  it  at  the  time.  It  was 
»vhile  they  were  following  this  road,  however,  through 
i  section  heavily  shaded  with  trees,  that  they  were 
suddenly  confronted  by  the  blazing  lights  of  another 
nachine  descending  upon  them  at  full  speed  from 
he  opposite  direction,  and  even  though  Blount  by 
iie  most  amazing  dexterity  managed  to  throw  his  car 
nto  the  adjacent  fence  and  wood,  still  it  came  so  close 
uid  was  traveling  at  such  terrific  speed  that  it  clipped 
their  left  rear  wheel  as  he  did  so. 


254     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

"Castleman's  car!"  Blount  said  softly  after  it  had 
passed.  "I  saw  him.  They  missed  us  by  an  inch!" 

"What  do  you  think  of  that!"  exclaimed  Gregory 
cynically.  "I  wonder  if  they'll  come  back  to  see  the 
result  of  their  work?" 

Even  as  they  were  talking,  however,  they  heard  the 
big  car  returning. 

"Say,  this  looks  serious!  I  don't  like  the  looks  of 
it!"  whispered  Blount.  "That  car  would  have  torn 
us  to  bits  and  never  been  scratched.  And  here  they 
are  now.  Better  look  out  for  them.  It's  just  as  well 
that  we're  armed.  You  have  your  gun,  haven't  you?" 

The  other  group  approached  most  brazenly. 

"Hello!  Any  trouble?"  they  called  from  a  dis 
tance.  "So  sorry,"  and  then  as  though  they  had  just 
discovered  it,  " — well,  if  it  isn't  Gregory  and  Blount! 
Well,  well,  fellows,  so  sorry!  It  was  an  accident,  I 
assure  you.  Our  steering  gear  is  out  of  order." 

Gregory  and  Blount  had  previously  agreed  to  stand 
their  ground,  and  if  any  further  treachery  were  in 
tended  it  was  to  be  frustrated  with  bullets.  The  situa 
tion  was  partially  saved  or  cleared  up  by  the  arrival 
of  a  third  car  containing  a  party  of  four  middle-aged 
men  who,  seeing  them  in  the  wood  and  the  other  car 
standing  by,  stopped  to  investigate.  It  was  Gregory's 
presence  of  mind  which  kept  them  there. 

"Do  you  mind  staying  by,  Mister,  until  that  other 
car  leaves?"  he  whispered  to  one  of  the  newcomers 
who  was  helping  to  extricate  Blount's  machine.  "I 
think  they  purposely  tried  to  wreck  us,  but  I'm  not 
sure;  anyway,  we  don't  want  to  be  left  alone  with 
them." 

Finding  themselves  thus  replaced  and  the  others  de- 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    255 

Itermined  to  stay,  Castleman  and  his  followers  were 
[most  apologetic  and  helpful.  They  had  forgotten  some- 
Ithing  back  at  the  inn,  they  explained,  and  were  return- 
ling  for  it.  As  they  had  reached  this  particular  spot 
[and  had  seen  the  lights  of  Blount's  car,  they  had  tried 
[to  stop,  but  something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  steer- 
ling  gear.  They  had  tried  to  turn,  but  couldn't,  and 
mad  almost  wrecked  their  own  car.  Was  there  any 
(damage?  They  would  gladly  pay.  Blount  assured 
them  there  was  not,  the  while  he  and  Gregory  accepted 
itheir  apologies  in  seeming  good  part,  insisting,  how- 
lever,  that  they  needed  no  help.  After  they  had  gone 
JBlount  and  Gregory,  with  the  strangers  as  guards, 
(made  their  way  to  the  hotel,  only  to  find  it  dark  and 
deserted. 

What  an  amazing  thing  it  all  was,  Gregory  said  to 
[himself  over  and  over,  the  great  metropolis  threaded 
with  plots  like  this  for  spoil — cold  blooded  murder  at 
tempted,  and  that  by  a  young  girl  and  these  young 
Btnen  scarcely  in  their  middle  twenties,  and  yet  there 
twas  no  way  to  fix  it  on  them.  Here  he  was,  fairly 
convinced  that  on  two  occasions  murder  had  been 
planned  or  attempted,  and  still  he  could  prove  nothing, 
pot  a  word,  did  not  even  dare  to  accuse  any  one !  And 
ffmogene,  this  girl  of  beauty  and  gayety,  pretending  an 
affection  for  him — and  he  half  believing  it — and  at  the 
jfcame  time  convinced  that  she  was  in  on  the  plot  in 
jfcome  way.  Had  he  lost  his  senses? 

He  was  for  getting  out  now  posthaste,  feeling  as  he 
•lid  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  band  of  murderers  who 
Ivere  plotting  his  death  by  "accident"  in  case  they 
tailed  to  discredit  him  by  some  trick  or  plot,  but  Blount 
ivas  of  another  mind.  He  could  not  feel  that  this  was 


256     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

a  good  time  to  quit.  After  all,  everything  had  been  in 
their  favor  so  far.  In  addition,  Blount  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  girl  was  a  very  weak  tool  of 
these  other  people,  not  a  clever  plotter  herself.  He 
argued  this,  he  said,  from  certain  things  which  he  had 
been  able  thus  far  to  find  out  about  her.  She  had 
once  been,  he  said,  the  private  secretary  or  personal 
assistant  to  a  well  known  banker  whose  institution  had 
been  connected  with  the  Tilney  interests  in  Penyank, 
and  whose  career  had  ended  in  his  indictment  and 
flight.  Perhaps  there  had  been  some  papers  which 
she  had  signed  as  the  ostensible  secretary  or  treasurer, 
which  might  make  her  the  victim  of  Tilney  or  of  some 
of  his  political  friends.  Besides,  by  now  he  was 
willing  to  help  raise  money  to  carry  Gregory's  work 
on  in  case  he  needed  any.  The  city  should  be  protected 
from  such  people.  But  Blount  considered  Imogene  a 
little  soft  or  easy,  and  thought  that  Gregory  could 
influence  her  help  him  if  he  tried. 

"Stick  it  out,"  he  insisted.  "Stick  it  out.  It  looks 
pretty  serious,  I  know,  but  you  want  to  remember  that 
you  won't  be  any  better  off  anywhere  else,  and  here  we 
at  least  know  what  we're  up  against.  They  know  by 
now  that  we're  getting  on  to  them.  They  must 
They're  getting  anxious,  that's  all,  and  the  time 
is  getting  short.  You  might  send  for  your  wife, 
but  that  wouldn't  help  any.  Besides,  if  you  play 
your  cards  right  with  this  girl  you  might  get  her 
to  come  over  to  your  side.  In  spite  of  what  she's  do 
ing,  I  think  she  likes  you."  Gregory  snorted,  "Or 
you  might  make  her  like  you,  and  then  you  could  get 
the  whole  scheme  out  of  her.  See  how  she  looks  at 
you  all  the  time!  And  don't  forget  that  every  day 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     257 

rou  string  this  thing  along  without  letting  them  bring 
t  to  a  disastrous  finish,  the  nearer  you  are  to  the  elec- 
ion.  If  this  goes  on  much  longer  without  their  ac- 
romplishing  anything,  Tilney  won't  have  a  chance  to 
Tame  up  anything  new  before  the  election  will  be  upon 
rim,  and  then  it  will  be  too  late.  Don't  you  see?" 

On  the  strength  of  this,  Gregory  agreed  to  linger  a 
ittle  while  longer,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  telling  on  his 
nerves.  He  was  becoming  irritable  and  savage,  and 
he  more  he  thought  about  it  the  worse  he  felt.  To 
hink  of  having  to  be  pleasant  to  people  who  were 
murderers  at  heart  and  trying  to  destroy  you! 

The  next  morning,  however,  he  saw  Imogene  at 
>reakfast,  fresh  and  pleasant,  and  with  that  look  of 
jfriendly  interest  in  her  eyes  which  more  and  more  of 
late  she  seemed  to  wear  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  was 
prawn  to  her,  although  he  did  his  best  to  conceal  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  back  last  night  to  play  cards 
With  us?"  she  asked.     "We  waited  and  waited  for 


"Oh,  haven't  you  heard  about  the  latest  'accident'  ?" 

lie  asked,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  word,  and 

|ookmg  at  her  with  a  cynical  mocking  light  in  his  eyes. 

"No.    What  accident?"    She  seemed  thoroughly  un- 

Iware  that  anything  had  happened. 

"You  didn't  know,  of  course,  that  Castleman's  car 
klmost  ran  us  down  after  you  left  us  last  night?" 
I    "No!"     she     exclaimed     with     genuine     surprise. 
•'Where  ?" 

I  "Well,  just  after  you  left  us,  in  the  wood  beyond 
feellepoint  It  was  so  fortunate  of  you  two  to  have 
left  just  when  you  did."  And  he  smiled  and  ex- 


258     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

plained  briefly  and  with  some  cynical  comments  as  to 
the  steering  gear  that  wouldn't  work. 

As  he  did  so,  he  examined  her  sharply  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  what,  he  thought  might  be  pain 
or  fear  or  horror  in  her  glance.  Certainly  it  was 
not  a  look  disguising  a  sympathetic  interest  in  the 
plans  of  her  friends  or  employers,  if  they  were  such. 
Her  astonishment  was  so  obviously  sincere,  confusing, 
revealing,  in  a  way  that  it  all  but  won  him.  He  could 
not  make  himself  believe  that  she  had  had  a  hand  in 
that  anyhow.  It  must  be  as  Blount  said,  that  she 
was  more  of  a  tool  herself  than  anything  else.  She 
probably  couldn't  help  herself  very  well  or  didn't 
know  the  lengths  to  which  her  pretended  "  friends" 
were  prepared  to  go.  Her  eyes  seemed  troubled, 
sad.  She  seemed  weaker,  more  futile,  than  at 
any  time  since  he  had  known  her,  and  this,  while  it 
did  not  add  particularly  to  his  respect,  softened  his 
personal  animosity.  He  felt  that  under  the  circum 
stances  he  might  come  to  like  her.  He  also  thought 
that  she  might  be  made  to  like  him  enough  to  help  him. 
He  had  the  emotional  mastery  of  her,  he  thought,  and 
that  was  something.  He  had  described  the  incident 
with  all  the  vividness  of  detail  that  he  could,  showing 
how  he  and  Blount  had  escaped  death  by  a  hair's 
breadth.  She  seemed  a  little  sick,  and  shortly  after 
left  the  table.  Gregory  had  taken  good  care  to  make 
it  plain  that  the  strangers  in  the  other  car  had  been  in 
formed  as  to  the  exact  details  of  the  case,  and  had  of 
fered  their  services  as  witnesses  in  case  they  were 
wanted. 

"But  we  don't  propose  to  do  anything  about  it,"  he 
said  genially,  "not  now,  anyhow,"  and  it  was  then 


VILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     259 

lat  she  seemed  to  become  a  little  sick  or  faint,  and 
ft  him. 

Whether  owing  to  this  conversation  or  the  accident 
self,  or  to  circumstances  concerning  which  he  knew 
othing,  there  now  seemed  to  come  a  temporary  lull  in 
le  activities  of  this  group.  The  Blue  Trailer  disap- 
eared  as  an  active  daily  fact  in  their  lives.  Mrs.  Skel- 
>n  was  called  to  the  city  on  business  for  a  few  days, 
s  well  as  Mr.  Diamondberg,  the  "cloak  and  suit 
lan,"  as  Blount  always  called  him,  who  in  all  the  time 
e  had  been  there  had  never  publicly  joined  them. 
Urs.  Skelton  came  back  later  as  cheerful  and  optimis- 
Ic  as  ever,  but  in  the  meanwhile  there  had  been  an 
Approach  on  the  part  of  Imogene  toward  himself  which 
bemed  to  promise  a  new  order  of  things.  She  was 
reer,  more  natural  and  more  genial  than  she  had 
jeen  hitherto.  She  was  with  him  more,  smiling,  play- 
m,  and  yet  concerned,  he  thought.  Because  of  their 
bnversation  the  morning  after  the  accident,  he  felt 
ksier  in  her  presence,  more  confidential,  as  though  he 
light  be  able  to  talk  to  her  about  all  this  soon  and  get 
er  to  help  him. 

They  had  two  hours  together  on  the  second  after- 
oon  of  the  absence  of  the  others  which  brought  them 
ithin  sight  of  each  other's  point  of  view.  It  began 
fter  lunch,  because  Gregory  had  some  reports  to  ex- 
mine  and  was  staying  here  to  do  it.  She  came  over 
nd  stood  beside  him. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I'm  looking  up  some  facts,"  he  replied  enig- 
latically,  smiling  up  at  her.  "Sit  down." 

They  fell  into  conversation  first  about  a  tennis 
latch  which  was  being  held  here,  and  then  about  his 


260     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR) 

work,  which  he  described  in  part  after  observing  thai 
she  knew  all  about  it,  or  ought  to. 

"Why  do  you  always  talk  'to  me  that  way  aboul 
everything  in  connection  with  you?"  she  asked  aftei 
a  moment's  pause.  "You  have  such  a  queer  way  oi 
speaking,  as  though  I  knew  something  I  ought  not  tc 
know  about  your  affairs." 

"Well,  you  do,  don't  you?"  he  questioned  grimly 
staring  at  her. 

"Now,  there  it  is  again!  What  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"Do  you  really  need  to  have  me  explain  to  you?" 
he  went  on  in  a  hard  cynical  manner.  "As  though 
you  didn't  know!  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  heard  of 
the  Union  Bank  of  Penyank,  for  instance?  Or  Mr. 
Swayne,  its  president?  Or  Mr.  Riley,  or  Mr.  Mears, 
the  cashier?" 

At  the  mention  of  these,  as  at  the  mention  of  the 
automobile  accident,  there  was  something  which 
seemed  to  click  like  a  camera  shutter  in  her  eyes,  only 
this  time  there  was  no  sign  of  pain,  none  even  of  con 
fusion.  She  seemed,  except  for  a  faint  trace  of  color, 
to  be  fairly  calm  and  poised.  She  opened  her  mouth 
slightly,  but  more  in  an  attempted  smile  of  tolerance 
than  anything  else. 

"The  Union  Bank?  Mr.  Swayne?  Mr.  Tilney? 
What  are  you  talking  about?"  she  persisted.  "Who 
is  Mr.  Swayne,  and  where  is  the  Union  Bank  ?" 

"Really,  now,  Miss  Carle,"  he  said  with  a  kind  of 
dogmatic  fury,  "if  you  want  me  to  have  any  regard 
of  any  kind  for  you  in  the  future,  quit  lying  about 
this.  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean.  You 
know  who  Mr.  Swayne  is,  all  right,  and  why  he  left 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     261 

Eastridge.  You  also  know  Mr.  Diamondberg,  al 
though  I  heard  you  say  you  didn't,  and  that  right 
after  I  had  seen  yoti.  walking  with  him  out  here 
on  the  dunes  three  weeks  ago.  You  don't  remember 
that,  I  suppose?"  this  as  she  fluttered  slightly. 

She  stared,  completely  shaken  out  of  her  composure, 
and  a  real  flush  spread  over  her  cheeks  and  neck. 
For  the  moment  her  expression  hardened  the  least  bit, 
then  gave  way  to  one  of  mingled  weakness  and  con 
fusion.  She  looked  more  or  less  guilty  and  genuinely 
distrait. 

"Why,  Mr.  Gregory,"  she  pleaded  weakly,  "how 
you  talk!  Positively,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  of 
what  you  mean,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  rough. 
I  don't  think  you  know  what  you're  talking  about,  or 
if  you  do  you  certainly  don't  know  anything  about  me. 
You  must  have  me  mixed  up  with  some  one  else,  or 
with  something  that  I  don't  know  anything  about." 
She  moved  as  if  to  leave. 

"Now  listen  to  me  a  minute,"  he  said  sharply,  "and 
don't  be  so  ready  to  leave.  You  know  who  I  am,  and 
just  what  I'm  doing.  I'm  running  an  investigation 
bureau  on  my  own  account  with  which  I  mean  to  break 
up  the  present  city  political  ring,  and  I  have  a  lot 
;of  evidence  which  might  cause  Mr.  Tilney  and  the 
mayor  and  some  others  a  lot  of  trouble  this  fall,  and 
they  know  it,  and  that's  why  you're  out  here.  Mr. 
Tilney  is  connected  with  the  mayor,  and  he  used  to 
be  a  bosom  friend  of  your  friend,  Jack  Swayne.  And 
Diamondberg  and  Mrs.  Skelton  are  in  his  employ  right 
now,  and  so  are  you.  You  think  I  don't  know  that 
Castleman  and  his  friends  were  working  with  you 
and  Mrs.  Skelton,  and  Diamondberg  and  these 


262     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

'brokers*  also,  and  that  Castleman  tried  to  run  into 
us  the  other  night  and  kill  me,  and  that  I'm  being 
watched  here  all  the  time  and  spied  on,  but  I  am,  and  I 
I  know  it,  and  I'm  not  in  the  dark  as  to  anything — 
not  one  thing — not  even  you,"  and  he  leered  at  her 
angrily. 

"Now  wait  a  moment,"  he  went  on  quickly  as  she : 
opened    her   mouth    and    started    to    say    something. 
"You  don't  look  to  me  to  be  so  crafty  and  devilish  i 
as  all  this  seems,  or  I  wouldn't  be  talking  to  you  at  I 
all,  and  your  manner  all  along  has  been  so  different — 
you've   appeared   so    friendly  and  sympathetic,   that 
I've  thought  at  times  that  maybe  you  didn't  know 
exactly  what  was  going  on.     Now,  however,  I  see: 
that  you  do.     Your  manner  the  other  morning  ati 
breakfast  made  me  think  that  possibly  you  were  nott 
so  bad  as  you  seemed.     But  now  I  see  that  you've  - 
been  lying  to  me  all  along  about  all  this,  just  as  II 
thought,  only  I  must  say  that  up  to  now  I  haven't! 
been  willing  to  believe  it.     This  isn't  the  first  time  an  i 
attempt  has  been  made  to  get  people  in  this  way, . 
though.     It's  an  old  political  trick,  only  you're  trying : 
to  work  it  once  more,  and  I  don't  propose  that  you  i 
shall  work  it  on  me  if  I  can  help  it.     Plainly,  you  i 
people  wouldn't  hesitate  to  kill  me,  any  more  than  Til- 
ney  hesitated  to  ruin  Crothers  three  years  ago,  or  than 
he  would  hesitate  to  ruin  me  or  any  other  man  or  wom 
an  who  got  in  his  path,  but  he  hasn't  got  me  yet,  and 
he's  not  going  to,  and  you  can  tell  him  that  for  me. 
He's  a  crook.     He  controls  a  bunch  of  crooks — the 
mayor  and  all  the  people  working  with  him — and  if  i 
you're  in  with  them,  as  I  know  you  are,  and  know 
what  you're  doing,  you're  a  crook  too." 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    263 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!  Don't!"  she  exclaimed.  "Please 
don't!  This  is  too  terrible!  To  think  that  you 
should  talk  to  me  in  this  way !"  but  she  made  no  at 
tempt  to  leave. 

"Now  I  want  to  tell  you  something  more,  Miss 
Carle — if  that's  you  real  name — "  Gregory  went  on 
as  she  was  putting  her  hands  to  her  temples  and  ex 
claiming,  and  she  winced  again.  "As  I  said  before, 
you  don't  look  to  me  to  be  as  bad  as  you  seem,  and 
for  that  reason  I'm  talking  to  you  now.  But  just 
see  how  it  is :  Here  I  am,  a  young  man  just  starting 
out  in  the  world  really,  and  here  you  are  trying  to 
ruin  me.  I  was  living  here  with  my  wife  and  my 
little  two-year-old  baby  peacefully  enough  until  she 
had  to  go  to  the  mountains  because  our  little  boy  was 
taken  sick,  and  then  you  and  Mrs.  Skelton  and  Dia- 
mondberg  and  Castleman  and  the  'brokers'  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  crowd  that  are  and  have  been  around  here 
watching  and  spying,  came  and  began  to  cause  me  trou 
ble.  Now  I'm  not  helpless.  And  you  needn't  think  I 
wasn't  warned  before  you  came,  because  I  was. 
There  are  just  as  many  influential  men  on  my  side  of 
the  fence  right  now  as  there  are  on  Tilney's — will 
be — and  he  isn't  going  to  get  away  with  this  thing 
as  easily  as  he  thinks.  But  just  think  of  your  part 
in  all  this !  Why  should  you  want  to  ruin  me  or  help 
these  people  ?  What  have  I  ever  done  to  you  ?  I  can 
understand  Tilney's  wanting  to  do  it.  He  thinks  that 
I  have  facts  which  will  injure  him,  and  I  have,  and 
that  because  I  haven't  made  any  public  statement  the 
evidence  is  still  in  my  hands,  and  that  if  I  am 
put  out  of  the  way  or  discredited  the  whole  thing  will 
blow  over  and  nothing  will  happen  to  him — but  it 


264     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

won't.  Not  now  any  more.  It  can't.  This  thing; 
will  go  on  just  the  same,  whether  I  am  here  or  not. 
But  that  isn't  the  point  either.  I  was  told  two  months 
ago  that  you  would  come,  not  by  Mrs.  Skelton,  but 
by  friends  of  mine,  and  that  an  attempt  would  be 
made  on  my  life,"  and  at  that  she  opened  her 
eyes  wide  and  sat  there  apparently  amazed,  "and  here] 
you  are  on  schedule  time  and  doing  just  as  you  werei 
told,  and  apparently  you  aren't  the  least  bit  ashamed 
to  do  it.  But  don't  you  think  it's  a  pretty  shabby 
game  for  you  to  play?"  He  stared  at  her  wearily 
and  she  at  him,  but  now  for  the  moment  she  said 
nothing,  just  sat  there. 

"That  big  blue  machine  that  was  to  have  killed  me 
the  other  night,"  he  went  on,  stretching  matters  a 
little  in  so  far  as  his  own  knowledge  was  concerned, 
"was  all  arranged  for  long  before  you  came  down 
here.  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  why  you  work  for 
Tilney,  but  I  know  now  that  that's  what  you're  doing, 
and  I'm  sick  of  you  and  the  whole  thing.  You're 
just  a  plain  little  crook,  that's  all,  and  I'm  through 
with  you  and  this  whole  thing,  and  I  don't  want  you 
to  talk  to  me  any  more.  What's  more,  I'm  not  going 
to  leave  this  hotel,  either,  and  you  can  take  that  news 
to  Tilney  if  you  want  to,  or  Mrs.  Skelton  or  whoever 
else  is  managing  things  here  for  him.  I've  kept  a 
day-to-day  record  of  everything  that's  happened  so 
far,  and  I  have  witnesses,  and  if  anything  more  hap 
pens  to  me  here  I'm  going  to  the  newspapers  and  ex 
pose  the  whole  thing.  If  you  had  any  sense  of  de 
cency  left  you  wouldn't  be  in  on  anything  like  this, 
but  you  haven't — you're  just  a  shabby  little  trickster, 
and  that  lets  you  out,  and  that's  all  I  have  to  say." 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     265 

He  stood  up  and  made  as  if  to  walk  off,  while  Miss 
Carle  sat  there,  seemingly  dazed,  then  jumped  up  and 
called  after  him: 

"Mr.  Gregory!  Please!  Please!  Mr.  Gregory, 
I  want  to  tell  you  something!" 

He  stopped  and  turned.  She  came  hurriedly  up  to 
him. 

"Don't  go,"  she  pleaded,  "not  just  yet.  Wait  a 
minute.  Please  come  back.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 
And  though  he  looked  at  her  rather  determinedly,  he 
followed  her. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"You  don't  understand  how  it  is,"  she  pleaded,  with 
a  look  of  real  concern  in  her  eyes.  "And  I  can't  tell 
you  either,  just  now,  but  I  will  some  time  if  you  will 
let  me.  But  I  like  you,  and  I  really  don't  want  to  do 
you  any  harm.  Really,  I  don't.  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  these  automobile  things  you're  telling 
about — truly  I  don't.  They're  all  terrible  and  hor 
rible  to  me,  and  if  they  are  trying  to  do  anything  like 
that,  I  don't  know  it,  and  I  won't  have  anything  more 
to  do  with  it — really  I  won't.  Oh,  it's  terrible!"  and 
she  clenched  her  hands.  "I  do  know  Mr.  Diamond- 
berg  now,  I  admit  that,  but  I  didn't  before  I  came 
down  here,  and  Mr.  Swayne  and  Mr.  Tilney.  I  did 
come  here  to  see  if  I  could  get  you  interested  in  me^ 
but  they  didn't  tell  me  just  why.  They  told  me — Mrs, 
Skelton  did — that  you,  or  some  people  whom  you 
represented,  were  trying  to  get  evidence  against  some 
friends  of  theirs — Mr.  Tilney's,  I  believe — who  were 
absolutely  innocent,  that  you  weren't  happy  with  your 
wife,  and  that  if  some  one,  any  one,  were  able  to 
make  you  fall  in,. love  with  he.r  or  just  become  very 


266     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

good  friends,  she  might  be  able  to  persuade  you  not 
to  do  it,  you  see.  There  wasn't  any  plan,  so  far  as  I 
know,  to  injure  you  bodily  in  any  way.  They  didn't 
tell  me  that  they  wanted  to  injure  you  physically — 
really  they  didn't.  That's  all  news  to  me,  and  dreadful. 
All  they  said  was  that  they  wanted  to  get  some  one  to 
get  you  to  stop — make  it  worth  your  while  in  a  money 
way,  if  I  could.  I  didn't  think  there  was  anything  so 
very  wrong  in  that,  seeing  all  they  have  done  for  me 
in  the  past — Mr.  Tilney,  .Mrs.  Skelton  and  some 

others.  But  after  I  saw  you  a  little  while  I "  she 

paused  and  looked  at  him,  then  away,  "I  didn't  think 
you  were  that  kind  of  a  man,  you  see,  and  so — well, 
it's  different  now.  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  to 
hurt  you.  Really  I  don't.  I  couldn't — now." 

"So  you  admit  now  that  you  do  know  Mr.  Tilney," 
he  commented  sourly,  but  not  without  a  sense  of 
triumph  behind  it  all. 

"I  just  told  you  that,"  she  said. 

She  stopped,  and  Gregory  stared  at  her  suspiciously. 
That  she  liked  him  was  plain,  and  in  a  sense  it  was 
different  from  that  of  a  mere  passing  flirtation,  and 
as  for  himself — well,  he  couldn't  help  liking  her  in  a 
genial  way.  He  was  free  to  admit  that  to  himself, 
in  spite  of  her  trickery,  and  that  she  was  attractive, 
and  as  yet  she  personally  had  not  done  anything  to 
him,  certainly  nothing  that  he  could  prove.  She 
seemed  even  now  so  young,  although  so  sophisticated 
and  wise,  and  much  about  her  face,  its  smoothness, 
the  delicate  tracery  of  hair  about  her  forehead,  the 
drooping  pout  of  the  upper  lip,  sharpened  his  interest 
and  caused  him  to  meditate. 

"Well  ?"  he  inquired  after  a  time. 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    267 

"Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  turn  on  me  so  and  leave 
me,"  she  pleaded.  "I  haven't  done  anything  to  you, 
have  I?  Not  yet,  anyhow." 

"That's  just  the  point — not  yet.  There's  the  whole 
story  in  a  nutshell." 

"Yes,  but  I  promise  you  faithfully  that  I  won't, 
that  I  don't  intend  to.  Really  I  don't.  You  won't 
believe  me,  but  that's  true.  And  I  won't,  I  give  you  my 
word, — truly.  Why  won't  you  still  be  friends  with 
me?  I  can't  tell  you  any  more  about  myself  now 
than  I  have — not  now — but  I  will  some  time,  and  I 
wish  you  would  still  be  friends  with  me.  I  promise 
not  to  do  anything  to  cause  you  trouble.  I  haven't 
really,  have  I?  Havel?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  he  answered  testily  and 
roughly,  the  while  believing  that  this  was  a  deliberate 
attempt  on  her  part  to  interest  him  in  spite  of  himself, 
to  get  him  not  to  leave  yet.  "It  seems  to  me  you've 
done  enough,  being  with  these  people.  You've  led  me 
into  going  about  with  them,  for  one  thing.  I  would 
never  have  gone  with  them  on  most  of  these  trips 
except  for  you.  Isn't  that  enough?  What  more  do 
you  want?  And  why  can't  you  tell  me  now,"  he 
demanded,  feeling  in  a  way  the  authority  of  a  victor, 
"who  these  people  are  and  all  about  them?  I'd  like 
to  know.  It  might  be  a  help  to  me,  if  you  really 
wanted  to  do  something  for  me.  What  are  their 
plans,  their  game?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell  you  any  more  than  I 
have,  truly  I  can't.  If  I  find  out,  maybe  I  will  some 
time.  I  promise  to.  But  not  now.  I  can't,  now. 
Can't  you  trust  me  that  much?  Can't  you  see  that 
I  like  you,  when  I  tell  you  so  much?  I  haven't  any 


268     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

plan  to  injure  you  personally,  truly  I  haven't.  I'm 
obliged  to  these  people  in  one  way  and  another,  but 
nothing  that  would  make  me  go  that  far.  Won't  you 
believe  me?"  She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  in  in 
jury.  There  was  something  new  in  her  expression,  a 
luring,  coaxing  something. 

"I  haven't  any  one  who  is  really  close  to  me  any 
more,"  she  went  on,  "not  anybody  I  like.  I  suppose 
it's  all  my  own  fault,  but—  '  her  voice  became  very 
sweet. 

In  spite  of  his  precautions  and  the  knowledge  that 
his  wife  was  the  best  and  most  suitable  companion 
for  him  in  the  world,  and  that  he  was  permanently 
fixed  through  his  affection  for  his  child  and  the  help 
ful,  hopeful  mother  of  it,  nevertheless  he  was  moved  by 
some  peculiarity  of  this  girl's  temperament.  What 
power  had  Tilney  over  her,  that  he  could  use  her  in 
this  way?  Think  of  it — a  beautiful  girl  like  this! 

"What  about  Mrs.  Skelton?"  he  demanded.  "Who 
is  she,  anyhow?  And  these  three  gardeners  around 
here?  What  is  it  they  want?"  (There  were  three 
gardeners  of  the  grounds  who  whenever  he  and  Imo- 
gene  had  been  alone  together  anywhere  managed 
somehow  to  be  working  near  the  scene — an  arrival 
which  caused  him  always  instanter  to  depart.)  "And 
Diamondberg  ?" 

She  insisted  that  in  so  far  as  the  gardeners  were 
concerned  she  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  them.  If 
they  were  employed  by  Mrs.  Skelton  or  any  one,  it. 
was  without  her  knowledge.  As  for  Diamondberg, 
she  explained  that  she  had  only  met  him  since  she  had 
come  here,  but  that  she  really  did  not  like  him.  For 
some  reason  Mrs.  Skelton  had  asked  her  to  appear  not 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    269 

to  know  him.  Mrs.  Skelton,  she  persisted,  had  known 
her  years  before  in  Cincinnati,  as  she  had  said,  but 
more  recently  in  the  city.  She  had  helped  her  to  get 
various  positions,  twice  on  the  stage.  Once  she  had 
worked  for  Mr.  Swayne,  yes,  for  a  year,  but  only  as 
a  clerk.  She  had  never  known  anything  about  him  or 
his  plans  or  schemes,  never.  When  Gregory  wanted 
to  know  how  it  was  that  he  was  to  be  trapped  by  her, 
if  at  all,  she  insisted  that  she  did  not  believe  that  he 
was  to  be  trapped.  It  was  all  to  have  been  as  she  said. 

Gregory  could  not  quite  make  out  whether  she  was 
telling  him  the  exact  truth,  but  it  was  near  enough, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  could  not  be  wholly 
lying.  She  seemed  too  frank  and  wishful.  There 
was  something  sensuously  affectionate  in  her  point  of 
view  and  her  manner.  He  would  know  everything 
in  the  future,  she  insisted,  if  he  wanted  to,  but  only 
not  now — please  not  now.  Then  she  asked  about  his 
wife,  where  she  was,  when  she  was  coming  back. 

"Do  you  love  her  very  much?"  she  finally  asked 
naively. 

"Certainly  I  love  her.  Why  do  you  ask?  I've  a 
two-year-old  boy  that  I'm  crazy  about." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  a  little  puzzled  or 
uncertain,  he  thought. 

They  agreed  to  be  friends  after  a  fashion  before 
they  were  through.  He  confessed  that  he  liked  her, 
but  still  that  he  did  not  trust  her — not  yet.  They 
were  to  go  on  as  before,  but  only  on  condition  that 
nothing  further  happened  to  him  which  could  be  traced 
to  her.  She  frankly  told  him  that  she  could  not  con 
trol  the  actions  of  the  others.  They  were  their  own 
masters,  and,  after  a  fashion,  hers,  but  in  so  far  as 


270     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

she  could  she  would  protect  him.  She  did  not  believe 
that  they  intended  to  try  much  longer.  In  so  far  as 
she  was  concerned,  he  might  go  away  if  he  chose. 
She  could  see  him  anywhere,  if  he  would.  She  was 
not  sure  if  that  would  make  any  difference  in  their 
plans  or  not.  Anyhow,  she  would  not  follow  him  if 
he  did  go  unless  he  wished  it,  but  she  would  prefer 
that  he  did.  Perhaps  nothing  more  would  happen 
here.  If  she  heard  of  anything  she  would  tell  him, 
or  try  to,  in  time.  But  she  could  not  say  more  than 
that  now.  After  a  while,  maybe,  as  soon  as  she  could 
get  out  of  here  .  .  .  there  were  certain  things  over 
which  she  had  no  control.  She  was  very  enigmatic 
and  secretive,  and  he  took  it  to  mean  that  she  was 
involved  in  some  difficult  situation  and  could  not  easily 
extricate  herself. 

"I  wouldn't  take  too  much  stock  in  her,  at  that," 
Blount  reflected  when  Gregory  had  told  him  about  it. 
"Just  keep  your  eyes  open,  that's  all.  Don't  have 
anything  to  do  with  her  in  a  compromising  way.  She 
may  be  lying  to  you  again.  Once  a  crook,  always  a 
crook."  Such  was  his  philosophy. 

Mrs.  Skelton  returned  on  the  third  day  after  his 
long  conversation  with  Imogene,  and  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  had  seemed  to  come  closer  together  than 
ever  before,  to  have  established  a  friendly  semi-de 
fensive  pact,  still  he  sensed  treachery.  He  could  not 
make  out  what  it  was.  She  seemed  to  be  friendly, 
simple,  gay,  direct,  even  wooing — and  yet — what? 
He  thought  at  one  time  that  she  might  be  the  uncon 
scious  psychologic  victim  of  Mrs.  Skelton  or  of  some 
one  else;  at  other  times,  an  absolutely  unprincipled 
political  philanderer.  While  pretending  to  be  "on  the 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     271 


272     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

he  did  at  once,  excusing  himself  lightly  and  laughingly, 
he  saw  two  men  turning  in  at  a  cross  corridor  just 
beyond,  and  one,  seeing  him  turn  hack,  said  to  the 
other,  "It  must  be  on  the  other  side,  Jim."  Well, 
there  might  not  have  been  anything  very  significant 
in  that,  either.  Any  two  men  might  accidentally  turn 
into  a  hall  on  an  end  balcony  of  which  a  maiden  was 
sitting  in  very  diaphanous  array,  but  still — 

It  was  the  same  whenever  he  walked  along  the  outer 
or  sea  wall  at  night,  listening  to  the  thunder  of  the 
water  against  the  rapp  which  sustained  the  walk,  and 
meditating  on  the  night  and  the  beauty  of  the  hotel  and 
the  shabbiness  of  politics.  Imogene  was  always  about 
him  when  she  might  be  with  safety,  as  he  saw  it, 
but  never  under  such  circumstances  as  could  be  made 
to  seem  that  they  were  alone  together.  Bullen,  one 
of  the  two  brokers,  who  seemed  not  a  bad  sort  after 
his  kind,  came  out  there  one  night  with  Mrs.  Skelton 
and  Imogene,  and  seeing  Gregory,  engaged  him  in 
conversation  and  then  left  Imogene  to  his  care. 
Gregory,  hating  to  appear  asininely  suspicious  under 
such  circumstances,  was  genuinely  troubled  as  to  what 
to  do  in  such  cases  as  these.  Always  now  he  was 

drawn  to  her,  painfully  so,  and  yet He  had  told 

her  more  than  once  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  alone 
with  her  in  this  way,  and  yet  here  she  was,  and  she 
was  always  insisting  that  she  did  not  wish  him  to  be 
with  her  if  he  objected  to  it,  and  yet  look  at  this! 
Her  excuse  always  was  that  she  could  not  help  it,  that 
it  was  purely  accidental  or  planned  by  them  without 
her  knowledge.  She  could  not  avoid  all  accidents. 
When  he  demanded  to  know  why  she  did  not  leave, 
clear  out  of  all  of  this,  she  explained  that  without 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    273 

great  injury  to  herself  and  Mrs.  Skelton  she  could  not, 
and  that  besides  he  was  safer  with  her  there. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked  on  this  occasion.  "An- 
| other  plan?"  Feeling  her  stop  and  pull  back  a  little, 
he  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  "Well,  you  know  what 
I've  been  telling  you  all  along,"  he  added  gruffly. 

"Please  don't  be  so  suspicious,  Ed.  Why  do  you 
i always  act  so?  Can't  I  even  walk  out  here?  I 
i  couldn't  avoid  this  to-night,  truly  I  couldn't.  Don't 
i  you  suppose  I  have  to  play  a  part  too — for  a  time, 
I  anyhow?  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do — leave  at 
?once?  I  can't,  I  tell  you.  Won't  you  believe  me? 
ii  Won't  you  have  a  little  faith  in  me?" 

"Well,  come  on,"  he  returned  crossly,  as  much  im 
itated  with  himself  as  any  one.  "Give  me  your  arm. 
[Give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  you  know,"  and  he  walked 
per  courteously  but  firmly  in  the  direction  of  the  prin- 
Lcipal  veranda,  trying  to  be  nice  to  her  at  the  same 
kime. 

"I  tell  you,  Imogene,  I  can't  and  I  won't  do  this. 

You  must  find  ways  of  avoiding  these  things.    If  not, 

[I'm  not  going  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you  at  all. 

You  say  you  want  me  to  be  friends  with  you,  if  no 

Imore.     Very  well.     But  how  are  we  going  to  do  it?" 

land  after  more  arguments  of  this  kind  they  parted 

•with  considerable  feeling,  but  not  altogether  antag- 

Uonistic,  at  that. 

Yet  by  reason  of  all  this  finally,  and  very  much  to 
•his  personal  dissatisfaction,  he  found  himself  limited 
las  to  his  walks  and  lounging  places  almost  as  much 
las  if  he  had  been  in  prison.  There  was  a  little  per- 
•gola  at  one  end  of  the  lawn  with  benches  and  flower- 
ling  vines  which  had  taken  his  fancy  when  he  first 


274     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

came,  and  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  frequent 
as  a  splendid  place  to  walk  and  smoke,  but  not  any 
more.  He  was  too  certain  of  being  picked  up  there, 
or  of  being  joined  by  Mrs.  Skelton  and  Imogene,  only 
to  be  left  with  Imogene,  with  possibly  the  three  gar 
deners  or  a  broker  as  witnesses.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  how  ridiculous  it  all  was. 

^He  even  took  Imogene,  he  and  Blount,  in  Blount's 
car,  and  Mrs.  Skelton  with  them  or  not,  as  the  case 
might  be — it  was  all  well  enough  so  long  as  Blount 
was  along — to  one  place  or  another  in  the  immediate 
vicinity — never  far,  and  always  the  two  of  them 
armed  and  ready  for  any  emergency  or  fray,  as  they 
said.  It  seemed  a  risky  thing  to  do,  still  they  felt  a 
little  emboldened  by  their  success  so  far,  and  besides, 
Imogene  was  decidedly  attractive  to  both  of  them. 
Now  that  she  had  confessed  her  affection  for  Gregory 
she  was  most  alluring  with  him,  and  genial  to  Blount, 
teasing  and  petting  him  and  calling  him  the  watch 
dog.  Blount  was  always  crowing  over  how  well  he 
and  Gregory  were  managing  the  affair.  More  than 
once  he  had  pointed  out,  even  in  her  presence,  that 
there  was  an  element  of  sport  or  fascinating  drama 
in  it,  that  she  "couldn't  fool  them,"  all  of  which  was 
helping  mightily  to  pass  the  time,  even  though  his 
own  and  Gregory's  life,  or  at  least  their  reputation, 
might  be  at  stake. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  is  my  advice,'*  Blount  kept  saying 
now  that  he  was  being  amused.  "Let  her  fall  in  love 
with  you.  Make  her  testify  on  your  behalf.  Get  a 
confession  in  black  and  white,  if  you  can.  It  would 
be  a  great  thing  in  the  campaign,  if  you  were  com- 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    275 

pelled  to  use  it."  He  was  a  most  practical  and  politi 
cal  soul,  for  all  his  geniality. 

Gregory  could  not  quite  see  himself  doing  that, 
however.  He  was  too  fond  of  her.  She  was  never 
quite  so  yielding,  so  close  to  him,  as  now.  When  he 
and  Blount  were  out  with  her,  now,  the  two  of  them 
ventured  to  rag  her  as  to  her  part  in  all  this,  asking 
her  whether  the  other  car  were  handy,  whether  the 
gardeners  had  been  properly  lined  up,  and  as  to  who 
was  behind  this  tree  or  that  house.  "There'd  be  no  use 
in  going  if  everything  wasn't  just  right,"  they  said. 
She  took  it  all  in  good  part,  even  laughing  and  mock 
ing  them. 

"Better  look  out!  Here  comes  a  spy  now,"  she 
would  sometimes  exclaim  at  sight  of  a  huckster  driv 
ing  a  wagon  or  a  farm-hand  pushing  a  wheelbarrow. 

To  both  Blount  and  Gregory  it  was  becoming  a 
farce,  and  yet  between  themselves  they  agreed  that  it 
had  its  charm.  They  were  probably  tiring  her  backers 
and  they  would  all  quit  soon.  They  hoped  so,  any 
how. 

But  then  one  night,  just  as  they  had  concluded  that 
there  might  not  be  so  very  much  to  this  plot  after  all, 
that  it  was  about  all  over,  and  Mrs.  Gregory  was 
writing  that  she  would  soon  be  able  to  return,  the 
unexpected  happened.  They  were  returning  from 
one  of  those  shorter  outings  which  had  succeeded  the 
longer  ones  of  an  earlier  day,  Blount  and  Gregory  and 
Imogene,  and  true  to  his  idea  of  avoiding  any  routine 
procedure  which  might  be  seized  upon  by  the  enemy 
as  something  to  expect  and  therefore  to  be  used, 
Blount  passed  the  main  entrance  and  drove  instead 
around  to  a  side  path  which  led  to  a  sunk-in  porch 


276     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

flanked  on  either  side  by  high  box  hedges  and  shel 
tered  furry  pines.  True  also  to  their  agreed  plan  of 
never  being  separated  on  occasions  like  this,  they  both 
walked  to  the  door  with  Imogene,  Blount  locking  his 
car  so  that  it  could  not  be  moved  during  his  absence. 
On  the  steps  of  this  side  porch  they  chaffered  a  little, 
bantering  Imogene  about  another  safe  night,  and  how 
hard  it  was  on  the  gardeners  to  keep  them  up  so  late 
and  moving  about  in  the  dark  in  this  fashion,  when 
Imogene  said  she  was  tired  and  would  have  to  go. 
She  laughed  at  them  for  their  brashness. 

"You  two  think  you're  very  smart,  don't  you?"  she 
smiled  a  little  wearily.  "It  would  serve  you  right  if 
something  did  happen  to  both  of  you  one  of  these 
days — you  know  so  much." 

"Is  that  so?"  chuckled  Blount.  "Well,  don't  hold 
any  midnight  conferences  as  to  this.  You'll  lose  your 
beauty  sleep  if  you  do." 

To  which  Gregory  added,  "Yes,  with  all  this  hard 
work  ahead  of  you  every  day,  Imogene,  I  should  think 
you'd  have  to  be  careful." 

"Oh,  hush,  and  go  on,"  she  laughed,  moving  toward 
the  door. 

But  they  had  not  gone  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  feet  down  the  shadowy  side  path  before  she  came 
running  after  them,  quite  out  of  breath. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  called  sweetly  as  she  neared  them, 
and  they  having  heard  her  footsteps  had  turned.  "I'm 
so  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  some  one  has  locked  that 
side  door,  and  I  can't  open  it  or  make  them  hear. 
Won't  one  of  you  come  and  help  me  ?"  Then,  as  the 
two  of  them  turned,  "That's  right.  I  forgot.  You 
always  work  in  pairs,  don't  you?" 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    277 

Blount  chortled.  Gregory  smiled  also.  They 
couldn't  help  it.  It  was  so  ridiculous  at  times — on 
occasions  like  this,  for  instance. 

''Well,  you  see  how  it  is,"  Gregory  teased,  "the  door 
may  be  very  tightly  closed,  and  it  might  take  the  two 
of  us  to  get  it  open." 

Seeing  that  Blount  was  really  coming,  he  changed 
his  mind.  "I  guess  I  can  get  it  open  for  her.  Don't 
bother  this  time.  I'll  have  to  be  going  in,  anyhow,"  he 
added.  The  thought  came  to  him  that  he  would  like 
to  be  with  Imogene  a  little  while — just  a  few  moments. 

Blount  left  them  after  a  cautioning  look  and  a 
cheery  good  night.  In  all  the  time  they  had  been  to 
gether  they  had  not  done  this,  but  this  time  it  seemed 
all  right.  Gregory  had  never  felt  quite  so  close  to 
Imogene  as  he  did  this  evening.  She  had  seemed  so 
warm,  laughing,  gay.  The  night  had  been  sultry,  but 
mellow.  They  had  tittered  and  jested  over  such 
trifling  things,  and  now  he  felt  that  he  would  like  to 
be  with  her  a  while  longer.  She  had  become  more  or 
less  a  part  of  his  life,  or  seemingly  so,  such  a  genial 
companion.  He  took  her  arm  and  tucked  it  under 
his  own. 

"It  was  nice  over  there  at  the  Berkeley,"  he  com 
mented,  thinking  of  an  inn  they  had  just  left.  "Beau 
tiful  grounds — and  that  music!  It  was  delightful, 
wasn't  it?"  They  had  been  dancing  together. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed,  "the  summer  will  soon  be 
over,  and  then  I'll  have  to  be  going  back,  I  suppose.  I 
wish  it  would  never  end.  I  wish  I  could  stay  here  for 
ever,  just  like  this,  if  you  were  here."  She  stopped  and 
looked  at  the  treetops,  taking  a  full  breath  and  stretch 
ing  out  her  arms.  "And  do  look  at  those  fire-flies," 


278     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

she  added,  "aren't  they  wonderful?"  She  hung  back, 
-watching  the  flashing  fire-flies  under  the  trees. 

"Why  not  sit  down  here  a  little  while?"  he  pro 
posed  as  they  neared  the  steps.  "It  isn't  late  yet." 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she  asked  warmly. 

"You  see,  I'm  beginning  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  want 
to  trust  you.  Isn't  that  idiotic?  Yes,  I'm  even  going 
to  risk  fifteen  minutes  with  you." 

"I  wish  you  two  would  quit  your  teasing,  just 
once,"  she  pleaded.  "I  wish  you  would  learn  to  trust 
me  and  leave  Blount  behind  just  once  in  a  while,(see- 
ing  that  I've  told  you  so  often  that  I  mean  to  do 
nothing  to  hurt  you  without  telling  you  beforehand." 

Gregory  looked  at  her,  pleased.  He  was  moved,  a 
little  sorry  for  her,  and  a  little  sorrier  for  himself. 

In  spite  of  himself,  his  wife  and  baby,  as  he  now 
saw,  he  had  come  along  a  path  he  should  not  have, 
and  with  one  whom  he  could  not  conscientiously  re 
spect  or  revere.  There  was  no  future  for  them  to 
gether,  as  he  well  knew,  now  or  at  any  other  time. 
Still  he  lingered. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  he  said,  "alone  at  last.  Now 
you  can  do  your  worst,  and  I  have  no  one  to  protect 


me." 


"It  would  serve  you  right  if  I  did,  Mr.  Smarty. 
But  if  I  had  suggested  that  we  sit  down  for  a  minute 
you  would  have  believed  that  the  wood  was  full  of 
spies.  It's  too  funny  for  words,  the  way  you  carry 
on.  But  you'll  have  to  let  me  go  upstairs  to  change 
my  shoes,  just  the  same.  They've  been  hurting  me 
dreadfully,  and  I  can't  stand  them  another  minute. 
If  you  want  to,  you  can  come  up  to  the  other  balcony, 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     279 

or  I'll  come  back  here.  I  won't  be  a  minute.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"Not  at  all,"  |ie  assented,  thinking  that  the  other 
balcony  would  not  be  as  open  as  this,  much  too  pri 
vate  for  him  and  her.J)  "Certainly  not.  Run  along. 
-But  Fd  rather  you  came  back  here.- (I  want  to  smoke, 
anyhow,"  and  he  drew  out  his  cigar  and  was  about  to 
make  himself  comfortable  when  she  came  back.  ^ 

"But  you'll  have  to  get  this  door  open  for  me,"  she 
said.  "I  forgot  about  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  right." 

He  approached  it,  looking  first  for  the  large  key 
which  always  hung  on  one  side  at  this  hour  of  the 
night,  but  not  seeing  it,  looked  at  the  lock.  The  key 
was  in  it. 

"I  was  trying  before.    I  put  it  there,"  she  explained. 

He  laid  hold  of  it,  and  to  his  surprise  it  came  open 
without  any  effort  whatsoever,  a  thing  which  caused 
him  to  turn  and  look  at  her. 

"I  thought  you  said  it  wouldn't  open,"  he  said. 

"Well,  it  wouldn't  before.  I  don't  know  what 
makes  it  work  now,  but  it  wouldn't  then.  Perhaps 
some  one  has  come  out  this  way  since.  Anyhow,  I'll 
run  up  and  be  down  right  away."  She  hurried  up  the 
broad  flight  of  stairs  which  ascended  leisurely  from 
this  entrance. 

Gregory  returned  to  his  chair,  amused  but  not  con 
scious  of  anything  odd  or  out  of  the  way  about  the 
matter.  It  might  well  have  been  as  she  said.  Doors 
were  contrary  at  times,  or  some  one  might  have  come 
down  and  pushed  it  open.  Why  always  keep  doubt 
ing?  Perhaps  she  really  was  in  love  with  him,  as  she 
seemed  to  indicate,  or  mightily  infatuated,  and  would 


280     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

not  permit  any  one  to  injure  him  through  her.  It 
would  seem  so,  really.  After  all,  he  kept  saying  to 
himself,  she  was  different  now  to  what  he  had  orig 
inally  thought,  and  what  she  had  originally  been, 
caught  in  a  tangle  of  her  own  emotions  and  compelled 
by  him  to  do  differently  from  what  she  had  previ 
ously  planned.  If  he  were  not  married  as  happily  as 
he  was,  might  not  something  come  of  this?  He  won 
dered. 

(The  black-green  wall  of  the  trees  just  beyond  where 
he  was  sitting,  the  yellow  light  filtering  from  the  one 
bowl  lamp  which  ornamented  the  ceiling,, the  fireflies 
and  the  sawing  katydids,  all  soothed  and  entertained 
him.  He  was  beginning  to  think  that  politics  was  not 
such  a  bad  business  after  all,  his  end  of  it  at  least,  or 
being  pursued  even.  His  work  thus  far  had  yielded 
him  a  fair  salary,  furnishing  as  it  had  excellent  copy 
for  some  of  the  newspapers  and  political  organizations 
— the  best  was  being  reserved  for  the  last — :.nd  was 
leading  him  into  more  interesting  ways  than  the  old 
newspaper  days  had,  and  the  future,  outside  of  what 
had  happened  in  the  last  few  weeks,  looked  promising 
enough.  Soon  he  would  be  able  to  deal  the  current 
administration  a  body  blow.  This  might  raise  him  to 
a  high  position  locally.  He  had  not  been  so  easily 
frustrated  as  they  had  hoped,  and  this  very  attractive 
girl  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,) 

For  a  while  he  stared  down  the  black-green  path 
up  which  they  had  come,  and  then  fixed  his  eyes  in 
lazy  contemplation  on  one  of  the  groups  of  stars 
showing  above  the  treetops.  Suddenly — or  was  it 
suddenly? — more  a  whisper  or  an  idea — he  seemed 
to  become  aware  of  something  that  sounded,  as  he 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    281 

listened  more  keenly,  like  a  light  footfall  in  the  garden 
beyond  the  hedge.  It  was  so  very  light,  a  mere  tickle 
of  the  grass  or  stirring  of  a  twig.  He  pricked  up  his 
ears  and  on  the  instant  strained  every  muscle  and 
braced  himself,  not  that  he  imagined  anything  very 
dreadful  was  going  to  happen,  but — were  they  up  to 
their  old  tricks  again?  Was  this  the  wonderful  gar 
deners  again?  Would  they  never  stop?  ^Remov 
ing  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  stilling  the  rocker 
in  which  he  had  been  slowly  moving  to  and  fro,  he 
decided  not  to  stir,  not  even  to  move  his  hands,  so 
well  concealed  was  he  from  the  bushes  on  either  side 
by  the  arrangement  of  the  posts,  one  of  which  was 
to  the  left  of  him.  In  this  position  he  might  see  and 
not  be  seen)  Did  they  know  he  was  there  ?  How  had 
they  found  out?  Were  they  always  watching  yet? 
Was  she  a  part  of  it?  (He  decided  to  get  up  and  leave, 
but  a  moment  later  thought  it  better  to  linger  just  a 
little,  to  wait  and  see.  If  he  left  and  she  came  back 
and  did  not  find  him  there — could  it  be  that  there 
was  some  new  trick  on  foot  £/ 

While  he  was  thus  swiftly  meditating,  he  was  using 
his  ears  to  their  utmost.  Certainly  there  was  a  light 
footfall  approaching  along  the  other  side  of  the  hedge 
to  the  left,  two  in  fact,  for  no  sooner  was  one  seem 
ingly  still,  near  at  hand,  than  another  was  heard  com 
ing  from  the  same  direction,  as  light  and  delicate  as 
that  of  a  cat — spies,  trappers,  murderers,  even,  as  he 
well  knew.  It  was  so  amazing,  this  prowling  and 
stalking,  so  desperate  and  cruel,  that  it  made  him  a 
little  sick.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  had  better  have  kept 
Blount  with  him — not  have  lingered  in  this  fashion. 
Hft  was,  about  to  leave,  a  nervous  thrill  chasing  up,  and 


282     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

down  his  spine,  when  he  heard  what  he  took  to  be 
Imogene's  step  on  the  stair.  Then  she  was  coming 
back,  after  all,  as  she  had  said.  She  was  not  a  part 
of  this  as  he  had  feared — or  was  she?  (Who  could 
tell?  But  it  would  be  foolish  to  leave  now.  She 
would  see  that  he  was  wholly  suspicious  again,  and 
that  stage  had  somehow  seemed  to  be  passing  between 
them.  She  had  promised  on  more  than  one  occasion 
to  protect  him  against  these  others,  let  alone  herself. 
Anyhow  he  could  speak  of  these  newcomers  and  then 
leave.  He  would  let  her  know  that  they  were  hanging 
about  as  usual,  always  ready  to  take  advantage  of 
his  good  nature.^ 

But  now,  her  step  having  reached  the  bottom  of 
the  stair  and  ceased,  she  did  not  come  out.  Instead, 
a  light  that  was  beside  the  door,  but  out  at  this  hour, 
was  turned  on,  and  glancing  back  he  could  see  her 
shadow,  or  thought  he  could,  on  the  wall  opposite,  to 
the  right.  She  was  doing  something — what?  There 
was  a  mirror  below  the  light.  She  might ,  be  giving 
her  hair  a  last  pat.  She  had  probably  arrayed  herself 
slightly  differently  for  him  to  see.  He  waited.  Still 
she  did  not  come.  Then  swiftly,  a  sense  of  something 
treacherous  came  over  him,  a  creeping  sensation  of 
being  victimized  and  defeated.  He  felt,  over  his  taut 
nerves,  this  thrilling  fear  which  seemed  to  almost  con 
vey  the  words :  Move !  Hurry !  Run !  He  could  not 
sit  still  a  moment  longer,  but,  as  if  under  a  great  com 
pulsion,  leaped  to  his  feet  and  sprang  to  the  door  just 
as  he  thought  he  heard  additional  movements  and  even 
whispers  in  the  dark  outside.  What  was"  it?  Who? 
Now  he  would  see! 

Inside  he  looked  for  her,  and  there  she  was,  but 


'ILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?     283 


low  different!    When  she  had  gone  upstairs  she  had 

;en  arrayed  in  a  light  summery  dress,  very  smart  and 
mt-door-ish,  but  here  she  was  clothed  in  a  soft  cling- 
housedress  such  as  one  would  never  wear  outside 
the  hotel.  And  instead  of  being  adjusted  with  her 
customary  care,  it  was  decidedly  awry,  as  though  she 
light  have  been  in  some  disturbing  and  unhappy  con 
test.  The  collar  was  slightly  torn  and  pulled  open, 

sleeve  ripped  at  the  shoulder  and  wrist,  the  hang  of 
j:he  skirt  over  the  hips  awry,  and  the  skirt  itself  torn, 

ragged  slit  over  the  knee.  Her  face  had  been  pow- 
lered  to  a  dead  white,  or  she  herself  was  overcome 
ath  fear  and  distress,  and  the  hair  above  it  was  dis- 
irranged,  as  though  it  had  been  shaken  or  pulled  to 

le  side.  Her  whole  appearance  was  that  of  one  who 
lad  been  assailed  in  some  evil  manner  and  who  had 
:ome  out  of  the  contest  disarranged  as  to  her  clothes 

id  shaken  as  to  her  nerve|L 

Brief  as  his  glance  wa^^regory  was  amazed  at  the 
irans formation.  He  was  so  taken  aback  that  he  could 
tot  say  anything,  but  just  what  it  all  meant  came  to 
lim  in  an  intuitive  flash.  To  fly  was  his  one  thought, 
|o  get  out  of  the  vicinity  of  this,  not  to  be  seen  or 

iken  near  it.  With  one  bound  he  was  away  and  up 
easy  stair  three  at  a  time,  not  pausing  to  so  much 
look  back  at  her,  meeting  her  first  wide  half-fright- 

icd  stare  with  one  of  astonishment,  anger  and  fear. 

[or  did  he  pause  until  he  had  reached  his  own  door, 
[hrough  whichji£  fairly  jumped,  locking  himself  in 
is  he  did  soJjOnce  inside,  he  stood  there  white  and 

aking,  waiting  for  any  sound  which  might  follow, 
my  pursuit,  but  hearing  none,  going  to  his  mirror 

id  mocking  at  himself  for  being  such  a  fool  as  to 


284     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR! 

be  so  easily  outwitted,  taken  in,  after  all  his  cautioi 
and  sophisticated  talk.  Lord!  he  sighed.  Lord 

And  after  all  her  protests  and  promises,  this  ver] 
evening,  too,  he  thought.  What  a  revelation  of  th< 
unreliability  and  treachery  of  human  nature!  So  sh< 
had  been  lying  to  him  all  the  time,  leading  him  on  ir 
the  face  of  his  almost  boastful  precautions  and  sus 
picions,  and  to-night,  almost  at  the  close  of  the  sea 
son,  had  all  but  succeeded  in  trapping  him!  Ther 
Tilney  was  not  so  easily  to  be  fooled,  after  all.  H( 
commanded  greater  loyalty  and  cunning  in  his  em 
ployees  than  he  had  ever  dreamed.  But  what  coulc 
he  say  to  her,  now  that  he  knew  what  she  really  was 
if  ever  he  saw  her  again?  She  would  just  laugh  al 
him,  think  him  a  fool,  even  though  he  had  managed 
to  escape.  Would  he  ever  want  to  see  her  again: 
Never,  he  thought.  But  to  think  that  any  one  sc 
young,  so  smooth,  so  seemingly  affectionate,  could  be 
so  ruthless,  so  devilishly  clever  and  cruel!  She  was 
much  more  astute  than  either  he  or  Blount  had  giver 
her  credit  for. 

After  moving  the  bureau  and  chairs  in  front  of  the 
door,  he  called  up  Blount  and  sat  waiting  for  him  tc 
come. 

Actually,  as  he  saw  it  now,  she  had  meant  to  stage 
a  seeming  assault  in  which  he  would  have  been  ac 
cused  as  the  criminal  and  if  they  had  sufficient  wit 
nesses  he  might  have  had  a  hard  time  proving  other 
wise.  After  all,  he  had  been  going  about  with  her  a 
great  deal,  he  and  Blount,  and  after  he  had  told  him 
self  that  he  would  not. 

Her  witnesses  were  there,  close  upon  him,  in  the 
dark.  Even  though  he  might  be  able  to  prove  his  previ- 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    285 

ous  good  character,  still,  considering  the  suspicious  fact 
that  he  had  trifled  with  her  and  this  treacherous  situa 
tion  so  long,  would  a  jury  or  the  public  believe  him? 
A  moment  or  two  more,  and  she  would  have  screamed 
ut  that  he  was  attacking  her,  and  the  whole  hotel 
ould  have  been  aroused.     Her  secret  friends  would 
ave  rushed  forward  and  beaten  him.    Who  knows  ? — 
hey  might  even  have  killed  him !     And  their  excuse 
ould  have  been  that  they  were  justified.     Unques- 
ionably  she  and  her  friends  would  have  produced  a 
loud  of  witnesses.     But  she  hadn't  screamed — there 
as  a  curious  point  as  to  that,  even  though  she  had  had 
mple  time  (and  she  had  had)  and  it  was  expected  of 
er  and  intended  that  she  should!     Why  hadn't  she? 
What  had  prevented  her?    A  strange,  disturbing  ex- 

Elpating  thought  began  to  take  root  in  his  mind,  but 
[  the  instant  also  he  did  his  best  to  crush  it. 
""'No,  no!  I  have  had  enough  now,"  he  said  to him- 
,^lf.  "She  did  intend  to  compromise  me  and  that  is 
(all  there  is  to  it.  And  in  what  a  fashion.  Horrible. 
[No,  this  is  the  end.  I  will  get  out  now  to-morrow,  that 
^is  one  thing  certain,  go  to  my  wife  in  the  mountains,  or 
[bring  her  home."  Meanwhile,  he  sat  there  trem- 
[bling,  revolver  in  hand,  wiping  the  sweat  from  his 
face,  for  he  did  not  know  but  that  even  yet  they  might 
c follow  him  here  and  attempt  the  charge  of  assault 
[anyhow.  Would  they — could  they?  Just  then  some 
lone  knocked  on  his  door,  and  Gregory,  after  demand- 
ling  to  know  who  it  was,  opened  it  to  Blount.  He 
(quickly  told  him  of  his  evening's  experience. 

"Well,"  said  Blount,  heavily  and  yet  amusedly,  "she 
[certainly  is  the  limit.  That  was  a  clever  ruse,  say 
;what  you  will,  a  wonder.  And  the  coolness  of  her! 


286     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

Why,  she  joked  with  us  about  it!  I  thought  you 
were  taking  a  chance,  but  not  a  great  one.  I  was 
coming  around  to  thinking  she  might  be  all  right,  and 
now  think  of  this!  I  agree  with  you  that  it  is  time 
for  you  to  leave.  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  get  her 
over  to  your  side.  She's  too  crafty." 

The  next  morning  Gregory  was  up  early  and  on 
the  veranda  smoking  and  meditating  as  to  his  exact 
course.  He  would  go  now,  of  course,  and  probably 
never  see  this  girl  with  her  fiend's  heart  again.  What 
a  revelation!  To  think  that  there  were  such  clever, 
ruthless,  beautiful  sirens  about  in  the  same  world  with 
such  women  as  his  wife!  Contrast  them — his  wife, 
faithful,  self-sacrificing,  patient,  her  one  object  the 
welfare  of  those  whom  she  truly  loved,  and  then  put 
on  the  other  side  of  the  scale  this  girl — tricky,  shame 
less,  an  actress,  one  without  scruples  or  morals,  her 
sole  object  in  life,  apparently,  to  advance  herself  in 
any  way  that  she  might,  and  that  at  the  expense  of 
everybody  and  everything! 

He  wanted  to  leave  without  seeing  her,  but  in  spite 
of  himself  he  sat  on,  telling  himself  that  it  would  do 
no  harm  to  have  just  one  last  talk  with  her  in  order 
to  clear  up  whether  she  had  really  intended  to  scream 
or  no — whether  she  was  as  evil  as  he  really  thought 
now,  confront  her  with  her  enormous  treachery  and 
denounce  her  for  the  villainess  she  was.  What  new 
lie  would  she  have  on  her  tongue  now,  he  wondered? 
Would  she  be  able  to  face  him  at  all?  Would  she 
explain  ?  Could  she  ?  He  would  like  to  take  one  more 
look  at  her,  or  see  if  she  would  try  to  avoid  him  com 
pletely.  This  morning  she  must  be  meditating  on  how 
unfortunately  she  had  failed,  missed  out,  and  only 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    287 

ast  night  she  had  taken  his  hand  and  smoothed  it 
ind  whispered  that  she  was  not  so  bad,  so  mean,  as 
le  thought  her  to  be,  and  that  some  day  he  would  find 
t  out.  And  now  see! 

He  waited  a  considerable  time,  and  then  sent  up 
Awd  that  he  wanted  to  see  her.  He  did  not  want  to 
>ee  this  thing  closed  in  this  fashion  with  no  chance 
:o  at  least  berate  her,  to  see  what  new  lie  she  would 
:ell.  After  a  while  she  came  down,  pale  and  seem- 
ngly  exhausted,  a  weary  look  about  her  eyes  as 
hough  she  had  not  slept.  To  his  astonishment  she 
:ame  over  quite  simply  to  where  he  was  sitting,  and 
>vhen  he  stood  up  at  her  approach  as  if  to  ward  her 
)ff,  stood  before  him,  seemingly  weaker  and  more 
lopeless  than  ever.  What  an  excellent  actress,  he 
!j;hought!  He  had  never  seen  her  so  downcast,  so 
[Completely  overcome,  so  wilted^] 

"Well/'  he  began  as  she  stood  there,  "what  new 
lie  have  you  fixed  up  to  tell  me  this  morning?" 

"No  lie,"  she  replied  softly. 

"What!  Not  a  single  lie?  Anyhow,  you'll  begin 
by  shamming  contrition,  won't  you?  You're  doing 
ithat  already.  Your  friends  made  you  do  it,  of  course, 
ijiidn't  they?  Tilney  was  right  there — and  Mrs.  Skel 
eton !  They  were  all  waiting  for  you  when  you  went 
bp,  and  told  you  just  what  to  do  and  how  it  had  to 
be  done,  wasn't  that  it?  And  you  had  to  do  it,  too, 
pidn't  you?"  he  sneered  cynically. 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  have  anything  to  say,"  she 
ianswered.  "I  didn't  do  anything — I  mean  I  didn't  in- 
lend  to — except  to  signal  you  to  run,  but  when  you 

burst  in  on  me  that  way "  He  waved  an  impa- 

lient  hand.  "Oh,  all  right,"  she  went  on  sadly.  "I 


288     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR  i 

can't  help  it  if  you  won't  believe  me.  But  it's  trtu 
just  the  same.  /Everything  you  think,  all  except  tha 
automobile  plot,  and  this  is  true,  but  I'm  not  asking 
you  to  believe  me  any  more.  I  can't  help  it  if  yoi 
won't.  It's  too  late.  But  I  had  to  go  through  ni} 
part  anyhow.  Please  don't  look  at  me  that  way,  EC 
— not  so  hard.  You  don't  know  how  really  weak  I  am 
or  what  it  is  that  makes  me  do  these  things}  But  ] 
didn't  want  to  do  anything  to  hurt  you  last  night,  no 
when  I  left  you.  And  I  didn't.  I  hadn't  the  slightes 
intention,  really  I  hadn't.  Oh,  well,  sneer  if  you  wan 
to!  I  couldn't  help  myself,  though,  just  the  same- 
believe  it  or  not.  Nothing  was  farther  from  my  mine 
when  I  came  in,  only — oh,  what  a  state  my  life  ha; 
come  to,  anyhow!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed.  "Yoi 
don't  know.  Your  life's  not  a  mess,  like  mine.  Peo 
ple  have  never  had  you  in  any  position  where  the) 
could  make  you  do  things.  (That's  just  the  trouble- 
men  never  know  women  really."  ("I  should  sa) 
not!"  he  interpolated.  )*!  "But  I  have  had  to  do  sc 
many  things  I  didn't  "want  to  do — but  I'm  not  plead 
ing  with  you,  Ed,  really  I'm  not.  I  know  it's  all  ovei 
between  us  and  no  use,  only  I  wish  I  could  make  yot 
believe  that  as  bad  as  I  am  I've  never  wanted  to  b< 
as  bad  to  you  as  I've  seemed.  Really,  I  haven't.  Oh 

honestly " 

"Oh,  cut  that  stuff,  please !"  he  said  viciously.  "I'tr 
sick  of  it.  It  wasn't  to  hear  anything  like  that  that  i 
sent  for  you.  The  reason  I  asked  you  to  come  dowr 
here  was  merely  to  see  how  far  you  would  face  it  out 
whether  you  would  have  the  nerve  to  come,  really,  tha1 
was  all — oh,  just  to  see  whether  you  would  have  a  neu 
lie  to  spring,  and  I  see  you  have.  You're  a  won 


i 


VILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    289 

er,  you  are !  But  I'd  like  to  ask  you  just  one  favor : 
you  please  let  me  alone  in  the  future?  I'm 
red,  and  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I'm  going  away 
ow.  This  fellow  Tilney  you  are  working  for  is  very 
ever,  but  it's  all  over.  It  really  is.  You'll  never  get 
nother  chance  at  me  if  I  know  myself."  He  started 
walk  off. 

!    Ed!"  she  called.     "Please— just  a  minute— 
on't  go  yet,  Ed,"  she  begged.     "There's  something  I 
rant  to  say  to  you  first.     I  know  all  you  say  is  true, 
here's  nothing  you  can  say  that  I  haven't  said  to 
lyself  a  thousand  times.     But  you  don't  understand 
rhat  my  life  has  been  like,  what  I've  suffered,  how 
ve  been  pushed  around,  and  I  can't  tell  you  now, 
ther — not  now.     Our  family  wasn't  ever  in  society, 
s  Mrs.  Skelton  pretended — you  knew  that,  of  course, 
lough — and  I  haven't  been  much  of  anything  except 
slave,  and  I've  had  a  hard  time,  too,  terrible,"  and 
ic  began  dabbing  her  eyes.     "I  know  I'm  no  good. 
,ast  night  proved  it  to  me,  that's  a  fact.    But  I  hadn't 
leant  to  do  you  any  h^rm  even  when  I  came  alone 
lat  way — really  I  didn't.     I  pretended  to  be  willing, 
Ihat  was  alLJ  Hear  me  out,  Ed,  anyhow.    Please  don't 
ro  yet.     Tthought  I  could  signal  you  to  run  without 
[hem  seeing  me — really  I  did.     When  I  first  left  you 
[he  door  was  locked,  and  I  came  back  for  that  sole  rea- 
k>n.     I  suppose  they  did  something  to  it  so  I  couldn't 
bpen  it.    There  were  others  up  there ;  they  made  me  go 
pack — I  can't  tell  you  how  or  why  or  who — but  they 
(vere  all  about  me — they  always  are.     They're  deter- 
nined  to  get  you,  Ed,  in  one  way  or  another,  even  if 
don't  help  them,  and  I'm  telling  you  you'd  better 
ook  out  for  yourself.     Please  do.     Go  away  from 


29o     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

here.  Don't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  me.' 
Don't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  any  of  these 
people.  I  can't  help  myself,  honestly  I  can't.  I  didn't 

want  to,  but — oh "  she  wrung  her  hands  and  sat 

down  wearily,  "you  don't  know  how  I'm  placed  with 
them,  what  it  is " 

"Yes?  Well,  I'm  tired  of  that  stuff,"  Gregory  now 
added  grimly  and  unbelievingly.  "I  suppose  they  told 
you  to  run  back  and  tell  me  this  so  as  to  win  my  sym- 
pathy  againjjMph,  you  little  liar!  You  make  me  sick. 
What  a  sneak  and  a  crook  you  really  are!" 

"Ed!  Ed!"  she  now  sobbed.  "Please!  Please! 
Won't  you  understand  how  it  is?  They  have  watched 
every  entrance  every  time  we've  gone  out  since  I  came 
here.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  which  door  you 
come  through.  They  have  men  at  every  end.  I  didn't 
know  anything  about  it  until  I  went  upstairs.  Really, 
I  didn't.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  get  out  of  all  this!  I'm 
so  sick  of  it  all.  I  told  you  that  I'm  fond  of  you,  and 
I  am.  Oh,  I'm  almost  crazy!  I  wish  sometimes  that 
I  could  die,  I'm  so  sick  of  everything.  My  life's  a 
shabby  mess,  and  now  you'll  hate  me  all  the  time," 
and  she  rocked  to  and  fro  in  a  kind  of  misery,  and 
cried  silently  as  she  did  soj^ 

Gregory  stared  at  her,  amazed  but  unbelieving. 

"Yes,"  he  insisted,  "I  know.  The  same  old  stuff, 
but  I  don't  believe  it.  You're  lying  now,  just  as  you 
have  been  all  along.  You  think  by  crying  and  pre 
tending  to  feel  sad  that  you  might  get  another  chance 
to  trick  me,  but  you  won't.  I'm  out  of  this  to-day, 
once  and  for  all,  and  I'm  through  with  you.  There's 
no  use  in  my  appealing  to  the  police  under  this  admin 
istration,  or  I'd  do  that.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  this. 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    291 

If  you  follow  me  any  longer,  or  any  of  this  bunch 
around  here,  I'm  going  to  the  newspapers.  There'll 
be  some  way  of  getting  this  before  the  courts  some 
where,  and  I'll  try  it]  And  if  you  really  were  on  the 
level  and  wanted  to  do  anything,  there's  a  way,  all 
right,  but  you  wouldn't  do  it  if  you  had  a  chance, 
never,  not  in  a  million  years.  I  know  you  wouldn^t/J 

"Oh,  Ed !  Ed !  You  don't  know  me,  or  how  I  f ee^f 
or  what  I'll  do,"  she  whimpered.  "You  haven't  given 
me  a  chance.  Why  don't  you  suggest  something,  if 
you  don't  believe  me,  and  see?" 

"Well,  I  can  do  that  easily  enough,"  he  replied 
sternly.  "I  can  call  that  bluff  here  and  now.  Write 
me  out  a  confession  of  all  that's  been  going  on  here. 
Let  me  hear  you  dictate  it  to  a  stenographer,  and  then 
come  with  me  to  a  notary  public  or  the  district  attor 
ney,  and  swear  to  it.  Now  we'll  see  just  how  much 
there  is  to  this  talk  about  caring  for  me,"  and  he 
watched  her  closely,  the  while  she  looked  at  him,  her 
eyes  drying  and  her  sobs  ceasing.  She  seemed  to 
pause  emotionally  and  stare  at  the  floor  in  a  specu 
lative,  ruminative  mood.  "Yes?  Well,  that's 
different,  isn't  it?  I  see  how  it  is  now.  You  didn't 
think  I'd  have  just  the  thing  to  call  your  bluff  with, 
did  you?  And  just  as  I  thought,  you  won't  do  it. 
Well,  I'm  onto  you  now,  so  good  day.  I  have  your 
measure  at  last.  Good-by!"  and  he  started  off. 

"Ed!"  she  called,  jumping  up  suddenly  and  start 
ing  after  him.  "Ed!  Wait — don't  go!  I'll  do  what 
you  say.  I'll  do  anything  you  want.  You  don't  be 
lieve  I  will,  but  I  will.  I'm  sick  of  this  life,  I  really 
am.  I  don't  care  what  they  do  to  me  now  afterwards, 
but  just  the  same  I'll  come.  Please  don't  be  so  hard 


292     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

on  me,  Ed.  Can't  you  see — can't  you  see — Ed — how 
I  feel  about  you?  I'm  crazy  about  you,  I  really  am. 
I'm  not  all  bad,  Ed,  really  I'm  not — can't  you  see 

that?     Only — only "   and  by  now  he  had  come 

back  and  was  looking  at  her  in  an  incredulous  way. 
"I  wish  you  cared  for  me  a  little,  Ed.  Do  you,  Ed, 
just  a  little?  Can't  you,  if  I  do  this?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  mingled  astonishment,  doubt, 
contempt,  pity,  and  even  affection,  after  its  kind. 
Would  she  really  do  it?  And  if  she  did  what  could 
he  offer  her  in  the  way  of  that  affection  which  she 
craved?  Nothing,  he  knew  that.  She  could  never 
extricate  herself  from  this  awful  group  by  which  she 
was  surrounded,  her  past,  the  memory  of  the  things 
she  had  tried  to  do  to  him,  and  he — he  was  married^} 
He  was  happy  with  his  wife  really,  and  could  make 
no  return.  There  was  his  career,  his  future,  his  pres 
ent  position.  But  that  past  of  hers — what  was  it? 
How  could  it  be  that  people  could  control  another 
person  in  this  way  she  claimed,  especially  scoundrels 
like  these,  and  why  wouldn't  she  tell  him  about  it? 
What  had  she  done  that  was  so  terrible  as  to  give  them 
this  power?  Even  if  he  did  care  for  her  what  chance 
would  he  have,  presuming  her  faithfulness  itself,  to 
either  confront  or  escape  the  horde  of  secret  enemies 
that  was  besetting  him  and  her  just  now?  They  would 
be  discovered  and  paraded  forth  at  their  worst,  all 
the  details.  That  would  make  it  impossible  for  him 
to  come  forth  personally  and  make  the  charge  which 
would  constitute  him  champion  of  the  people.  No,  no, 
no !  But  why,  considering  all  her  efforts  against  him, 
should  she  come  to  his  rescue  now,  or  by  doing  so 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    293 

expect  him  to  do  anything  for  her  by  way  of  return? 
He  smiled  at  her  dourly,  a  little  sadly. 

"Yes.  Well,  Imogene,  I  can't  talk  to  you  about  that 
now,  not  for  the  present,  anyhow.  You're  either  one 
|  of  the  greatest  actresses  and  crooks  that  ever  lived,  or 
you're  a  little  light  in  the  upper  story.  At  any  rate,  I 
should  think  that  you  might  see  that  you  could  scarce 
ly  expect  me  to  like  you,  let  alone  to  love  you,  all 
things  considered,  and  particularly  since  this  other 
thing  has  not  been  straightened  out.  You  may  be 
lying  right  now,  for  all  I  know — acting,  as  usual.  But 
even  so — let's  first  see  what  you  do  about  this  other, 
and  then  talk." 

He  looked  at  her,  then  away  over  the  sea  to  where 
some  boats  were  coming  towards  them. 

''Oh,  Ed,"  she  said  sadly,  observing  his  distracted 
gaze,  "you'll  never  know  how  much  I  do  care  for 
you,  although  you  know  I  must  care  a  lot  for  you,  to 
do  this.  It's  the  very  worst  thing  I  can  do  for  me — 
the  end,  maybe,  for  me.  But  I  wish  you  would  try 
and  like  me  a  little,  even  if  it  were  only  for  a  little 
while." 

"Well,  Imogene,  let's  not  talk  about  that  now,"  he 
replied  skeptically.  "Not  until  we've  attended  to  this 
other,  anyhow.  Certainly  you  owe  me  that  much. 
You  don't  know  what  my  life's  been,  either — one  long 
up-hill  fight.  But  you'd  better  come  along  with  me 
just  as  you  are,  if  you're  coming.  Don't  go  upstairs 
to  get  any  hat — or  to  change  your  shoes.  I'll  get  a 
car  here  and  you  can  come  with  me  just  as  you  are." 

She  looked  at  him  simply,  directly,  beatenly. 

"All  right,  Ed,  but  I  wish  I  knew  how  this  is  going 
to  end.  I  can't  come  back  here  after  this,  you  know, 


294     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

if  they  find  it  out.  I  know  I  owe  this  to  you,  but,  oh 
dear,  I'm  such  a  fool!  Women  always  are  where 
love  is  concerned,  and  I  told  myself  I'd  never  let 
myself  get  in  love  any  more,  and  now  look  at  me!" 
They  went  off  to  the  city  together,  to  his  office,  to 
a  notary,  to  the  district  attorney's  office — a  great  tri 
umph.  She  confessed  all,  or  nearly  so,  how  she  had 
formerly  been  employed  by  Mr.  Swayne ;  how  she  had 
met  Mr.  Tilney  there;  how,  later,  after  Swayne  had 
fled,  Tilney  had  employed  her  in  various  capacities, 
secretary,  amanuensis,  how  she  had  come  to  look  upon 
him  as  her  protector;  where  and  how  she  had  met 
Mrs.  Skelton,  and  how  the  latter,  at  Mr.  Tilney's 
request  (she  was  not  sure,  only  it  was  an  order,"  she 
said)  had  engaged — commanded,  rather — her  to  do 
this  work,  though  what  the  compulsion  was  she  re 
fused  to  say,  reserving  it  for  a  later  date.  She  was 
afraid,  she  said. 

Once  he  had  this  document  in  his  possession,  Greg 
ory  was  overjoyed,  and  still  he  was  doubtful  of  her. 
She  asked  him  what  now,  what  more,  and  he  re 
quested  her  to  leave  him  at  once  and  to  remain  away 
for  a  time  until  he  had  time  to  think  and  decide  what 
else  he  wished  to  do.  There  could  be  nothing  between 
them,  not  even  friendship,  he  reassured  her,  unless 
he  was  fully  convinced  at  some  time  or  other  that  no 
harm  could  come  to  him — his  wife,  his  campaign,  or 
anything  else.  Time  was  to  be  the  great  factor. 

And  yet  two  weeks  later,  due  to  a  telephone  mes 
sage  from  her  to  his  office  for  just  one  word,  a  few 
minutes,  anywhere  that  he  would  suggest,  they  met 
again,  this  time  merely  for  a  moment,  as  he  told  him- 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    295 

self  and  her.  It  was  foolish,  he  shouldn't  do  it,  but 
still At  this  interview,  somehow,  Imogene  man 
aged  to  establish  a  claim  on  his  emotions  which  it  was 
not  easy  to  overcome.  It  was  in  one  of  the  small 
side  booths  in  the  rather  out-of-the-way  Grill  Parzan 
Restaurant  in  the  great  financial  district.  Protesting 
that  it  was  only  because  she  wished  to  see  him  just 
once  more  that  she  had  done  this,  she  had  come  here, 
she  said,  after  having  dropped  instantly  and  com 
pletely  out  of  the  life  at  Triton  Hall,  not  returning 
even  for  her  wardrobe,  as  he  understood  it,  and  hid 
ing  away  in  an  unpretentious  quarter  of  the  city  until 
she  could  make  up  her  mind  what  to  do.  She  seemed, 
and"  said  she  was,  much  alone,  distrait.  She  did  not 
know  what  was  to  become  of  her  now,  what  might 
befall  her.  Still,  she  was  not  so  unhappy  if  only  he 
would  not  think  badly  of  her  any  more.  He  had  to 
smile  at  her  seemingly  pathetic  faith  in  what  love 
might  do  for  her.  To  think  that  love  should  turn  a 
woman  about  like  this!  It  was  fascinating,  and  so 
sad.  He  was  fond  of  her  in  a  platonic  way,  he  now 
told  himself,  quite  sincerely  so.  Her  interest  in  him 
was  pleasing,  even  moving,  "But  what  is  it  you  expect 
of  me?"  he  kept  saying  over  and  over.  "You  know 
we  can't  go  on  with  this.  There's  'the  girl'  and  the 
kid.  I  won't  do  anything  to  harm  them,  and  besides, 
the  campaign  is  just  beginning.  Even  this  is  ridic 
ulously  foolish  of  me.  I'm  taking  my  career  in  my 
hands.  This  lunch  will  have  to  be  the  last,  I  tell  you." 
"Well,  Ed,"  she  agreed  wistfully,  looking  at  him 
at  the  very  close  of  the  meal,  "you  have  made  up  your 
mind,  haven't  you?  Then  you're  not  going  to  see  me 
any  more?  You  seem  so  distant,  now  that  we're  back 


296     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

in  town.    Do  you  feel  so  badly  toward  me,  Ed  ?    Am 
I  really  so  bad?" 

"Well,  Imogene,  you  see  for  yourself  how  it  is, 
don't  you  ?"  he  went  on.  "It  can't  be.  You  are  more 
or  less  identified  with  that  old  crowd,  even  though 
you  don't  want  to  be.  They  know  things  about  you, 
you  say,  and  they  certainly  wouldn't  be  slow  to  use 
them  if  they  had  any  reason  for  so  doing.  Of  course 
they  don't  know  anything  yet  about  this  confession, 
unless  you've  told  them,  and  I  don't  propose  that  they 
shall  so  long  as  I  don't  have  to  use  it.  As  for  me,  I 
have  to  think  of  my  wife  and  kid,  and  I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  to  hurt  them.  If  ever  Emily  found 
this  out  it  would  break  her  all  up,  and  I  don't  want 
to  do  that.  She's  been  too  square,  and  we've  gone 
through  too  much  together.  I've  thought  it  all  over, 
and  I'm  convinced  that  what  I'm  going  to  do  is  for 
the  best.  We  have  to  separate,  and  I  came  here  to-day 
to  tell  you  that  I  can't  see  you  any  more.  It  can't  be, 
Imogene,  can't  you  see  that?" 

"Not  even  for  a  little  while?" 

"Not  even  for  a  day.  It  just  can't  be.  I'm  fond 
of  you,  and  you've  been  a  brick  to  pull  me  out  of  this, 
but  don't  you  see  that  it  can't  be?  Don't  you  really 
see  how  it  is?" 

She  looked  at  him,  then  at  the  table  for  a  moment, 
and  then  out  over  the  buildings  of  the  great  city. 

"Oh,  Ed,"  she  reflected  sadly,  "I've  been  such  a 
fool.  I  don't  mean  about  the  confession — I'm  glad 
I  did  that — but  just  in  regard  to  everything  I've  done. 
But  you're  right,  Ed.  I've  felt  all  along  that  it  would 
have  to  end  this  way,  even  the  morning  I  agreed  to 
make  the  confession.  But  I've  been  making  myself 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    297 

hope  against  hope,  just  because  from  the  very  first 
day  I  saw  you  out  there  I  thought  I  wouldn't  be  able 
to  hold  out  against  you,  and  now  you  see  I  haven't. 
Well,  all  right,  Ed.  Let's  say  good-bye.  Love's  a 
sad  old  thing,  isn't  it?"  and  she  began  to  put  on  her 
things. 

He  helped  her,  wondering  over  the  strange  whirl 
of  circumstances  which  had  brought  them  together 
and  was  now  spinning  them  apart. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  more  for  you,  Imo- 
gene,  I  really  do,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  could  say  some 
thing  that  would  make  it  a  little  easier  for  you — for 
us  both — but  what  would  be  the  use?  It  wouldn't 
really,  now  would  it?" 

"No,"  she  replied  brokenly. 

He  took  her  to  the  elevator  and  down  to  the  side 
walk,  and  there  they  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"Well,  Imogene,"  he  began,  and  paused.  "It's  not 
just  the  way  I'd  like  it  to  be,  but — well "  he  ex 
tended  his  hand  " here's  luck  and  good-by,  then." 

He  turned  to  go. 

She  looked  up  at  him  pleadingly. 

"Ed,"  she  said,  "Ed— wait!  Aren't  you— don't 
you  want  to ?"  she  put  up  her  lips,  her  eyes  seem 
ingly  misty  with  emotion. 

He  came  back  and  putting  his  arm  about  her,  drew 
her  upturned  lips  to  his.  As  he  did  so  she  clung  to 
him,  seeming  to  vent  a  world  of  feeling  in  this  their 
first  and  last  kiss,  and  then  turned  and  left  him,  never 
stopping  to  look  back,  and  being  quickly  los't  in  the 
immense  mass  which  was  swirling  by.  As  he  turned 
to  go  though  he  observed  two  separate  moving- 
picture  men  with  cameras  taking  the  scene  from  dif- 


298     WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR? 

ferent  angles.  He  could  scarcely  believe  his  senses. 
As  he  gazed  they  stopped  their  work,  clapped  their 
tripods  together  and  made  for  a  waiting  car.  Before 
he  could  really  collect  his  thoughts  they  were  gone — 
and  then 

"As  I  live!"  he  exclaimed.  "She  did  do  this  to  me 
after  all,  or  did  she?  And  after  all  my  feeling  for  her! 
— and  all  her  protestations!  The  little  crook!  And 
now  they  have  that  picture  of  me  kissing  her!  Stung, 
by  George!  and  by  the  same  girl,  or  by  them,  and 
after  all  the  other  things  I've  avoided!  That's  in 
tended  to  make  that  confession  worthless!  She  did 
that  because  she's  changed  her  mind  about  me!  Or, 
she  never  did  care  for  me."  Grim,  reducing  thought !) 
"Did  she — could  she — know — do  a  thing  like  that?" 
he  wondered.  "Is  it  she  and  Tilney,  or  just  Tilney 
alone,  who  has  been  following  me  all  this  time?"  He 
turned  solemnly  and  helplessly  away. 

Now  after  all  his  career  was  in  danger.  His  wife 
had  returned  and  all  was  seemingly  well,  but  if  he 
proceeded  with  his  exposures  as  he  must,  then  what? 
This  picture  would  be  produced!  He  would  be  dis 
graced  !  Or  nearly  so.  Then  what  ?  He  might  charge 
fraud,  a  concocted  picture,  produce  the  confession. 
But  could  he?  Her  arms  had  been  about  his  neck! 
He  had  put  his  about  her !  Two  different  camera  men 
had  taken  them  from  different  angles!  Could  he  ex 
plain  that?  Could  he  find  Imogene  again?  Was  it 
wise?  Would  she  testify  in  his  behalf?  If  so  what 
good  would  it  do  ?  Would  any  one,  in  politics  at  least, 
believe  a  morally  victimized  man?  He  doubted  it. 
The  laughter !  The  jesting !  The  contempt !  No  one 
except  his  wife,  and  she  could  not  help  him  here* 


WILL  YOU  WALK  INTO  MY  PARLOR?    299 

Sick  at  heart  and  defeated  he  trudged  on  now  clear 
ly  convinced  that  because  of  this  one  silly  act  of  kind 
ness  all  his  work  of  months  had  been  undone  and  that 
now,  never,  so  shy  were  the  opposing  political  forces, 
might  he  ever  hope  to  enter  the  promised  land  of  his 
better  future — not  here,  at  least — that  future  to  which 
he  had  looked  forward  with  so  much  hope — neither 
he  nor  his  wife,  nor  child. 

"Fool !  Fool !"  he  exclaimed  to  himself  heavily  and 
then — "fool!  fool!"  Why  had  he  been  so  ridiculously 
sympathetic  and  gullible  ?  Why  so  unduly  interested  ? 
but  finding  no  answer  and  no  clear  wray  of  escape  save 
in  denial  and  counter  charges  he  made  his  way  slowly 
on  toward  that  now  dreary  office  where  so  long  he 
had  worked,  but  where  now,  because  of  this  he  might 
possibly  not  be  able  to  work,  at  least  with  any  great 
profit  to  himself. 

"Tilney!  Imogene!  The  Triton!"  he  thought— 
what  clever  scoundrels  those  two  were — or  Tilney  any 
how — he  could  not  be  sure  of  Imogene,  even  now, 
and  so  thinking,  he  left  the  great  crowd  at  his  own 
door,  that  crowd,  witless,  vast,  which  Tilney  and  the 
mayor  and  all  the  politicians  were  daily  and  hourly 
using — the  same  crowd  which  he  had  wished  to  help 
and  against  whom,  as  well  as  himself,  this  little  plot 
had  been  hatched,  and  so  easily  and  finally  so  success 
fully  worked. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE 
"IDLEWILD" 

FT  would  be  difficult  to  say  just  how  the  trouble 
•••  aboard  the  Idlewild  began,  or  how  we  managed  to 
sail  without  things  going  to  smash  every  fifteen  min 
utes;  but  these  same  constitute  the  business  of  this 
narrative.  It  was  at  Spike,  and  the  weather  was  blis 
tering  hot.  Some  of  us,  one  in  particular,  were  mortal 
tired  of  the  life  we  were  leading.  It  was  a  dingy  old 
shop  inside,  loaded  with  machines  and  blacksmithing 
apparatus  and  all  the  paraphernalia  that  go  to  make  up 
the  little  depots  and  furniture  that  railways  use,  and 
the  labor  of  making  them  was  intrusted  to  about  a 
hundred  men  all  told — carpenters,  millwrights,  wood 
turners,  tinsmiths,  painters,  blacksmiths,  an  engineer, 
and  a  yard  foreman  handling  a  score  of  "guineas,"  all 
of  whom  were  too  dull  to  interest  the  three  or  four 
wits  who  congregated  in  the  engine  room. 

Old  John,  the  engineer,  was  one  of  these — a  big, 
roly-poly  sort  of  fellow,  five  foot  eleven,  if  he  was  an 
inch,  with  layers  of  flesh  showing  through  his  thin  shirt 
and  tight  trousers,  and  his  face  and  neck  constantly 
standing  in  beads  of  sweat.  Then  there  was  the  smith, 
a  small,  wiry  man  of  thirty-five,  with  arms  like  a  Titan 
and  a  face  that  was  expressive  of  a  goodly  humor, 
whether  it  was  very  brilliant  or  not — the  village  smith, 
as  we  used  to  call  him.  Then  there  was  Ike,  little  Ike, 
the  blacksmith's  helper,  who  was  about  as  queer  a  little 
cabin  boy  as  ever  did  service  on  an  ocean-going  steamer 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     301 

or  in  a  blacksmith's  shop — a  small  misshapen,  dirty- 
faced  lad,  whose  coat  was  three,  and  his  trousers 
four,  times  too  large  for  him — hand-me-downs  from 
some  mysterious  source;  immensely  larger  members 
of  his  family,  I  presume.  He  had  a  battered  face, 
such  as  you  sometimes  see  given  to  satyrs  humorously 
represented  in  bronze,  and  his  ears  were  excessively 
large.  He  had  a  big  mouthful  of  dirty  yellow  teeth, 
two  or  three  missing  in  front.  His  eyes  were  small 
and  his  hands  large,  but  a^sweeter  soul  never  crept 
nto  jijjmaller  or  more  misshapen  body.  Poor  little 
Ike.  To  think  how  near  he  came  to  being  driven  from 
:iis  job  by  our  tomfoolishness! 

I  should  say  here  that  the  Idlewild  was  not  a  boat 
at  all,  but  an  idea.  She  evolved  out  of  our  position 
on  Long's  Point,  where  the  Harlem  joins  the  Hud 
son,  and  where  stood  the  shop  in  which  we  all  worked, 
water  to  the  south  of  us,  water  to  the  west  of  us, 
water  to  the  north  of  us,  and  the  railroad  behind  us 
landward,  just  like  the  four — or  was  it  the  six?  hun 
dred — at  Balaklava.  Anyhow,  we  got  our  idea  from  the 
shop  and  the  water  all  around,  and  we  said,  after  much 
chaffering  about  one  thing  and  another,  that  we  were 
aboard  the  Idlewild,  and  that  the  men  were  the  crew, 
and  that  the  engineer  was  the  captain,  and  I  was  the 
mate,  just  as  if  everything  were  ship-shape,  and  this 
were  a  really  and  truly  ocean-going  vessel. 

As  I  have  said  before,  I  do  not  know  exactly  how 
the  idea  started,  except  that  it  did.  Old  John  was  al 
ways  admiring  the  beautiful  yachts  that  passed  up  and 
down  the  roadstead  of  the  Hudson  outside,  and  this 
may  have  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Anyhow,  he 
would  stand  in  the  doorway  of  his  engine  room  and 


302      THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

watch  everything  in  the  shape  of  a  craft  that  went  up 
and  down  the  stream.  He  didn't  know  much  about 
boats,  but  he  loved  to  comment  on  their  charms,  just 
the  same. 

"That  there  now  must  be  Morgan's  yacht,"  he  used 
to  say  of  a  fine  black-bodied  craft  that  had  a  piano- 
body  finish  to  it,  an'  "That  there's  the  Waterfowl,  Gov 
ernor  Morton's  yacht.  Wouldn'  ja  think,  now,  them 
fellers  'd  feel  comfortable  a-settin'  back  there  on  the 
poop  deck  an'  smokin'  them  dollar  cigars  on  a  day 
like  this?  Aw,  haw!" 

It  would  usually  be  blistering  hot  and  the  water  a 
flashing  blue  when  he  became  excited  over  the  yacht 
question. 

"Right-o,"  I  once  commented  enviously. 

"Aw,  haw !  Them's  the  boys  as  knows  how  to  live. 
I  wouldn'  like  nothin'  better  on  a  day  like  this  than 
to  set  out  there  in  one  o'  them  easy  chairs  an'  do  up 
about  a  pound  o'  tobacco.  Come  now,  wouldn't  that 
be  the  ideal  life  for  your  Uncle  Dudley?" 

"It  truly  would,"  I  replied  sadly  but  with  an  inher 
ent  desire  to  tease,  "only  I  don't  think  my  Uncle 
Dudley  is  doing  so  very  badly  under  the  circumstances. 
I  notice  he  isn't  losing  any  flesh." 

"Well,  I  dunno.  I'm  a  little  stout,  I'll  admit.  Still, 
them  conditions  would  be  more  congenial-like.  I  ain't 
as  active  as  I  used  to  be.  A  nice  yacht  an'  some  good 
old  fifty-cent  cigars  an'  a  cool  breeze  'd  just  about  do 
for  me." 

"You're  too  modest,  John.  You  want  too  little. 
You  ought  to  ask  for  something  more  suited  to  your 
Lucullian  instincts.  What  do  you  say  to  a  house  in 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"    303 

Fifth  Avenue,  a  country  place  at  Newport,  and  the 
friendship  of  a  few  dukes  and  earls?" 

"Well,  I'm  not  backward,"  he  replied.  "If  them 
things  was  to  come  my  way  I  guess  I  could  live  up  to 
em.  Aw,  haw!" 

"Truly,  truly,  John,  you're  quite  right,  but  you 
might  throw  in  a  few  shovelfuls  of  shavings  just  to 
show  that  there  are  no  hard  feelings  between  you  and 
the  company  while  you're  waiting  for  all  this.  I 
notice  your  steam  is  getting  low,  eh  ?  What  ?" 

"Hang  the  steam!  If  the  road  was  decent  they'd 
give  a  man  coal  to  burn.  It  takes  a  hundred  tons  of 
shavin's  a  day  to  keep  this  blinged  old  cormorant  goin'. 
Think  of  me  havin'  to  stand  here  all  day  an'  shovelin' 
in  shavin's!  Seems  to  me  all  I  do  here  is  shovel.  I'm 
an  engineer,  not  a  fireman.  They  ought  to  gimme  a 
man  for  that,  by  rights." 

"Quite  so !  Quite  so !  We'll  see  about  that  later — 
only,  for  the  present,  the  shavings  for  yours.  Back 
to  the  shovel,  John !"  The  tone  was  heavily  bantering. 

"Well,  the  steam  was  gettin'  a  little  low,"  John 
would  cheerfully  acknowledge,  once  he  was  able  to 
resume  his  position  in  the  doorway.  It  was  these 
painful  interruptions  which  piqued  him  so. 

Out  of  such  chaffering  and  bickering  as  this  it  was 
that  the  spirit  of  the  Idlewild  finally  took  its  rise.  It 
came  up  from  the  sea  of  thought,  I  presume. 

"What's  the  matter  with  us  having  a  boat  of  our 
own,  John?"  I  said  to  him  one  day.  "Here  we  are, 
out  here  on  the  bounding  main,  or  mighty  near  it. 
This  is  as  good  as  any  craft,  this  old  shop.  Ease 
the  thing  around  and  hoist  the  Jolly  Roger,  and  I'll 
sail  you  up  to  White  Plains.  What's  the  matter  with 


304     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

calling  her  the  Idlewildf  The  men  will  furnish  thej 
idle,  and  the  bosses  will  furnish  the  wild,  eh?  How's 
that  for  an  appropriate  title?" 

"Haw!  Haw!"  exclaimed  stout  John.  "Bully !; 
We'll  fix  'er  up  to-day.  You  be  the  captain  an'  I'll  be 
the  mate  an' " 

"Far  be  it  from  me,  John,"  I  replied  humbly  and 
generously,  seeing  that  he  had  the  one  point  of  vantage 
in  this  whole  institution  which  would  serve  admirably 
as  a  captain's  cabin — with  his  consent,  of  course.  It 
was  more  or  less  like  a  captain's  cabin  on  a  tug-boat, 
at  that,  picturesque  and  with  a  sea  view,  as  it  were.! 
"You  be  the  captain  and  I'll  be  the  mate.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  infringe  on  a  good  old  sea  dog's  rights. 
You're  the  captain,  all  right,  and  this  is  a  plenty  good 
enough  cabin.  I'm  content  to  be  mate.  Open  up 
steam,  Cap,  and  we'll  run  the  boat  up  and  down  the 
yard  a  few  times.  Look  out  the  window  and  see  how 
she  blows.  It's  ho!  for  a  life  on  the  bounding  main, 
and  a  jolly  old  crew  are  we!" 

"Right-o,  my  hearty !"  he  now  agreed,  slapping  me 
on  the  back  at  the  same  time  that  he  reached  for  the 
steamcock  and  let  off  a  few  preliminary  blasts  of 
steam — by  way  of  showing  that  we  were  moving,  as 
it  were.  The  idea  that  we  were  aboard  a  real  yacht 
and  about  to  cruise  forth  actually  seized  upon  my 
fancy  in  a  most  erratic  and  delightsome  way.  It  did 
on  John's,  too.  Plainly  we  needed  some  such  idyllic 
dream.  Outside  was  the  blue  water  of  the  river.  Far 
up  and  down  were  many  craft  sailing  like  ourselves,  I 
said. 

Inside  of  fifteen  minutes  we  had  appointed  the  smith, 
bos'n,  and  little  Ike,  the  smith's  helper,  the  bos'n's 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     305 

•mate.     And  we  had  said  that  the  carpenters  and  turn- 
lers    and    millwrights    were    the    crew    and    that   the 
["guineas"  were  the  scullions.     Mentally,  we  turned  the 
engineroom  into  the  captain's  cabin,  and  here  now  was 
Inothing  but  "Heave  ho-s"  and  "How  does  she  blow 
Ithar,  Bill-s?"  and  "Shiver  my  timbers-s"  and  "Blast 
|my  top-lights-s"  for  days  to  come.     We  "heaved  ho" 
I  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  engine  start 
ed,  "lay  to  and  dropped'anchor"  at  noon  when  the  en- 
jjgine  stopped,  "hoisted  and  set  sail"  again  at  one,  for 
[heaven  knows  what  port,  and  "sighted   Spike"  and 
I  "put  hard  to  port"  at  six.     Sometimes  during  the  day 
i  when  it  was  hot  and  we  were  very  tired  we  took  ideal 
runs  to  Coney  and  Manhattan  Beach  and  Newport, 
j  where  the  best  of  breezes  are,  in  imagination,  anyhow, 
and  we  found  it  equally  easy  to  sail  to  all  points  of  the 
compass  in  all  sorts  of  weather.     Many  was  the  time 
we  visited  Paris  and  London  and  Rome  and  Constan 
tinople,  all  in  the  same  hour,  regardless,  and  our  calls 
upon  the  nobility  of  these  places  were  always  a  mat 
ter  of  light  comment.     At  night  we  always  managed 
to  promptly  haul  up  at  Spike,  which  was  another  sub 
ject  of  constant  congratulation  between  the  captain  and 
the  mate.     For  if  we  had  missed  our  trains  and  got 
ten   home   late! —     Regardess   of   the    fact   that   we 
were    seafaring  men,    we    wanted    our    day    to    end 
promptly,  I  noticed. 

During  the  days  which  followed  we  elaborated  our 
idea,  and  the  Idlcwild  became  more  of  a  reality  than 
is  to  be  easily  understood  by  those  who  have  not  in 
dulged  in  a  similar  fancy.  We  looked  upon  the  shop 
as  a  trusty  ship  with  a  wheel  at  the  stern,  where  the 
millwright,  an  Irishman  by  the  name  of  Cullen,  ran 


306     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

the  giant  plane,  and  an  anchor  at  the  prow,  where 
the  engine-room  was.  And  there  was  a  light  in  th^ 
captain's  eye  at  times  which,  to  me  at  least,  betokened 
a  real  belief.  It  is  so  easy  to  enter  upon  a  fancy, 
especially  when  it  is  pleasing.  He  would  stand  in  the 
doorway  of  his  small,  hot  engine-room,  or  lean  out 
of  the  window  which  commanded  the  beautiful  sweep 
of  water  so  close  to  our  door,  and  at  times  I  verily 
believe  he  thought  we  were  under  way,  so  great  is 
the  power  of  self-hypnotism.  The  river  was  so  blue; 
and  smooth  these  summer  days,  the  passing  boats  so 
numerous.  We  could  see  the  waters  race  to  and  fro  as 
the  tides  changed.  It  was  such  a  relief  from  the  dull 
wearisome  grind  of  shoveling  in  shavings  and  carrying 
out  ashes  or  loading  cars,  as  I  was  occasionally  com 
pelled  to  do — for  my  health,  in  my  own  case,  I  should 
explain.  I  am  sure  that,  as  an  ordinary  fifteen-cent- 
an-hour-shaving-carrier,  I  valued  my  title  of  mate  as 
much  as  I  ever  valued  anything,  and  the  smith,  "the 
village  smith,"  was  smilingly  proud  to  be  hailed  as 
"Bos'n."  Little  Ike  being  of  an  order  of  mind  that 
fancied  the  world  ended  somewhere  abruptly  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  that  you  really  could  shoot 
buffaloes  after  you  left  Buffalo,  New  York,  did 
not  grasp  the  meaning  of  it  all  at  once,  but  at  last 
it  dawned  upon  him.  When  he  got  the  idea  that  we 
really  considered  this  a  ship  and  that  he  was  the  bos'n's 
mate  with  the  privilege  of  lowering  the  boats  in  case 
of  a  wreck  or  other  disaster,  he  was  beside  himself. 

"Hully  chee!"  he  exclaimed,  "me  a  bos'n's  mate! 
Dat's  de  real  t'ing,  ain't  it!  Heave  ho,  dere!"  And 
he  fell  back  on  the  captain's  locker  and  kicked  his  heels 
in  the  air. 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     307 

"You  want  to  remember,  though,  Ike,"  I  said,  once 
n  an  evil  moment — what  small  things  regulate  the. 
jood  and  evil  fortunes  of  all  things! — "that  this  is 
lie  captain's  cabin  and  bos'n's  mates  are  not  much 
shucks  on  a  vessel  such  as  the  Idlewild.  If  you  want 
to  retain  your  position  you  want  to  be  respectful,  and 
above  all,  obedient.  For  instance,  if  the  captain 
'should  choose  to  have  you  act  as  stoker  for  a  few 
minutes  now  and  then,  it  would  be  your  place  to  re 
joice  at  the  request.  You  get  that,  do  you?" 

"Not  on  yer  life,"  replied  Ike  irritably,  who  un 
derstood  well  enough  that  this  meant  more  work. 

"That's  right,  though,"  chimed  in  big  John,  pleased 
beyond  measure  at  this  latest  development.  "I'm  cap 
tain  here  now,  an'  you  don't  want  to  forget  that.  No 
back  lip  from  any  bos'n's  mate.  What  the  mate  says 
goes.  The  shovel  for  yours,  bos'n,  on  orders  from  the 
captain.  Now  jist  to  show  that  the  boat's  in  runnin' 
order  you  can  chuck  in  a  few  shovelfuls  right  now." 

"Na!    I  will  not!" 

"Come,  Ike,"  I  said,  "no  insubordination.  You 
can't  go  back  on  the  captain  like  that.  We  have  the 
irons  for  recalcitrants,"  and  I  eyed  a  pile  of  old  rusty 
chains  lying  outside  the  door.  "We  might  have  to 
truss  him  up,  Cap,  and  lay  him  down  below,"  and  to 
prove  the  significance  of  my  thought  I  picked  up  one 
end  of  a  chain  and  rattled  it  solemnly.  The  captain 
half  choked  with  fat  laughter. 

"That's  right.     Git  the  shovel  there,  Ike." 

Ike  looked  as  if  he  doubted  the  regularity  of  this, 
as  if  life  on  the  briny  deep  might  not  be  all  that  it 
was  cracked  up  to  be,  but  for  the  sake  of  regularity 
and  in  order  not  to  be  reduced  to  the  shameful  condi- 


308     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

tion  of  a  scullion,  or  worse,  "irons,"  which  was  the 
only  alternative  offered,  he  complied.  After  he  had 
thrown  in  eight  scoop fuls  we  both  agreed  that  this  was 
true  order  and  that  the  organization  and  dignity  of 
the  Idlewild  might  well  be  looked  upon  now  as  estab 
lished. 

Things  went  from  good  to  better.  We  persuaded 
Joe,  who  was  the  millwright's  assistant,  back  at  the 
"wheel,"  that  his  dignity  would  be  greatly  enhanced 
in  this  matter  if  he  were  to  accept  the  position  of 
day  watch,  particularly  since  his  labors  in  that 
capacity  would  accord  with  his  bounden  duties  as 
a  hireling  of  the  road;  for,  if  he  were  stationed 
in  the  rear  (front  room,  actually)  anyhow,  and 
compelled,  owing  to  the  need  of  receiving  and  tak 
ing  away  various  planks  and  boards  as  they  came  out 
of  the  planes  and  molding  machines,  to  walk  to  and 
fro,  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  notice  any  suspi 
cious  lights  on  the  horizon  forward  and  to  come  aft 
at  once,  or  at  least  at  such  times  as  the  boss  was  not 
looking,  or  when  he  came  to  heat  his  coffee  or  get  a 
drink,  and  report. 

Amiable  Joe!  I  can  see  him  yet,  tall,  ungainly, 
stoop-shouldered,  a  slight  cast  in  one  eye,  his  head 
bobbing  like  a  duck's  as  he  walked — a  most  agreeable 
and  pathetic  person.  His  dreams  were  so  simple,  his 
wants  so  few.  He  lived  with  his  sister  somewhere 
in  Eleventh  Avenue  downtown  in  a  tenement,  and  car 
ried  home  bundles  of  firewood  to  her  at  night  all  this 
great  distance,  to  help  out.  He  received  (not  earned 
— he  did  much  more  than  that)  seventeen  and  a  half 
cents  an  hour,  and  dreamed  of  what?  I  could  never 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     309 

quite  make  out.  Marriage?  A  little  cheap  flat  some 
where?  Life  is  so  pathetic  at  times. 

"Light  on  the  starboard  bow,"  or  "Light  on  the 
port  bow/'  were  the  chosen  phrases  which  we  told 
him  he  was  in  duty  bound  to  use,  adding  always  "Sir," 
as  respectful  subordinates  should.  Also  we  insisted 
on  his  instantly  making  known  to  us  at  such  times 
as  we  twain  happened  to  be  in  the  engine-room  to 
gether,  all  bell  buoys,  whistle  buoys,  lighthouses,  pass 
ing  vessels  and  most  of  all  the  monthly  pay  car  as  it 
rounded  the  curve  half  a  mile  up  the  track  about  the 
fifteenth  of  every  month.  The  matter  of  reporting  the 
approach  of  the  pay  car  was  absolutely  without  excep 
tion.  If  he  failed  to  do  that  we  would  be  compelled, 
sad  as  it  might  be  and  excellent  as  his  other  services 
had  been,  to  put  him  in  irons.  Here  we  showed  him 
the  irons  also. 

Joe  cheerfully  accepted.  For  days  thereafter  he 
would  come  back  regularly  when  the  need  of  heat 
ing  his  coffee  or  securing  a  drink  necessitated,  and 
lifting  a  straight  forefinger  to  his  forehead,  would 
report,  "Light  on  the  port  bow,  Sir.  I  think  it's  in  the 
steel  works  jist  up  the  track  here,"  or  "Light  on  the 
starboard,  Sir.  It's  the  fast  mail,  maybe,  for  Chi 
cago,  jist  passin'  Kingsbridge." 

"No  thinks,  Joseph,"  I  used  to  reprimand.  "You 
are  not  supposed  to  give  your  thinks.  If  the  captain 
wishes  to  know  what  it  is,  he  will  ask.  Back  to  the 
molding  machine  for  yours,  Joseph." 

Joseph,  shock-headed,  with  dusty  hair,  weak  eyes 
and  a  weaker  smile,  would  retire,  and  then  we  would 
look  at  each  other,  the  captain  and  I,  and  grin,  and 
he  would  exclaim : 


310     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

"Pretty  fair  discipline,  mate." 

"Oh,  I  think  we've  got  'em  going,  Captain." 

"Nothin'  like  order,  mate." 

"You're  right,  Cap." 

"I  don't  suppose  the  mate'd  ever  condescend  to  take 
orders  like  that,  eh,  mate?" 

"Well,  hardly,  Cap." 

"Still,  you  don't  want  to  forget  that  I'm  captain, 
mate." 

"And  you  don't  want  to  forget  that  I'm  mate, 
Captain." 

Thus  we  would  badger  one  another  until  one  of  the 
scullion  crew  arrived,  when  without  loss  of  dignity 
on  either  side  we  could  easily  turn  our  attention  to 
him. 

And  these  scullions!  What  a  dull  crew!  Gnarled, 
often  non-English-speaking  foreigners  against  or  in 
front  of  whom  we  could  jest  to  our  hearts'  content. 
They  could  not  even  guess  the  amazing  things  we 
were  ordering  them  to  do  on  penalty  of  this,  that,  and 
the  other. 

Things  went  from  better  to  best.  We  reached  the 
place  where  the  fact  of  the  shop's  being  a  ship,  and 
the  engineer  the  captain,  and  I  the  mate,  and  the  smith 
the  bos'n,  ad  infinitum,  came  to  be  a  matter  of  gen 
eral  knowledge,  and  we  were  admired  and  congratu 
lated  and  laughed  with  until  nearly  all  the  workers 
of  the  shop,  with  some  trifling  and  unimportant  ex 
ceptions,  the  foreman  for  one,  began  to  share  our 
illusion — carpenters,  cabinet-makers,  joiners,  all.  The 
one  exception,  as  I  say,  was  the  foreman,  only  he  was 
a  host  in  himself,  a  mean,  ill-dispositioned  creature,  of 
course,  who  looked  upon  all  such  ideas  as  fol-de-rol, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     311 

and  in  a  way  subversive  of  order  and  good  work.  He 
was  red-headed,  big-handed,  big-footed,  dull.  He  had 
no  imagination  beyond  lumber  and  furniture,  no  poetry 
in  his  soul.  But  the  crew,  the  hundred-headed  crew, 
accepted  it  as  a  relief.  They  liked  to  think  they  were 
not  really  working,  but  out  upon  a  blue  and  dancing 
sea,  and  came  back  one  by  one,  the  carpenters,  the 
tinsmiths,  the  millwrights,  one  and  all,  with  cheerful 
grins  to  do  us  honor. 

"So  you're  the  captain,  eh  ?"  lazy  old  Jack,  the  part 
ner  of  car-loading  Carder,  asked  of  the  engineer,  and 
John  looked  his  full  dignity  at  once. 

"That  I  am,  Jack,"  he  replied,  "only  able  seamen 
ain't  supposed  to  ask  too  many  familiar  questions. 
Are  they,  mate?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  not,"  I  replied,  arriving  with 
a  basket  of  shavings.  "Able  seamen  should  always 
salute  the  captain  before  addressing  him,  anyhow,  and 
never  fail  to  say  Sir.  Still,  our  crew  is  new.  It's  not 
very  able  and  the  seamen  end  of  it  is  a  little  on  the 
fritz,  I'm  thinking.  But,  all  things  considered,  we  can 
afford  to  overlook  a  few  errors  until  we  get  every 
thing  well  in  hand.  Eh,  Captain?" 

"Right,  mate,"  returned  the  captain  genially. 
"You're  always  right — nearly." 

Before  I  could  start  an  argument  on  this  score,  one 
of  the  able  seamen,  one  who  was  thus  discourteously 
commented  on,  observed,  "I  don't  know  about  that. 
Seems  to  me  the  mate  of  this  here  ship  ain't  any  too 
much  shucks,  or  the  captain  either." 

The  captain  and  I  were  a  little  dismayed  by  this. 
What  to  do  with  an  able  seaman  who  was  too  strong 
and  too  dull  to  take  the  whole  thing  in  the  proper 


312     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

spirit  ?  It  threatened  smooth  sailing !  This  particular 
person  was  old  Stephen  Bowers,  the  carpenter  from 
the  second  floor  who  never  to  us  seemed  to  have  quite 
the  right  lightness  of  spirit  to  make  a  go  of  all  this. 
He  was  too  likely  to  turn  rough  but  well-meant  humor 
into  a  personal  affront  to  himself. 

"Well,  Captain,  there  you  are,"  I  said  cautiously, 
with  a  desire  to  maintain  order  and  yet  peace. 
"Mutiny,  you  see." 

"It  does  look  that  way,  don't  it?"  big  John  replied, 
eyeing  the  newcomer  with  a  quizzical  expression,  half 
humorous,  half  severe.  "What'll  we  do,  mate,  under 
such  circumstances?" 

"Lower  a  boat,  Captain,  and  set  him  adrift,"  I  sug 
gested,  "or  put  him  on  bread  and  water,  along  with 
the  foreman  and  the  superintendent.  They're  the  two 
worst  disturbers  aboard  the  boat.  We  can't  have  these 
insubordinates  breaking  up  our  discipline." 

This  last,  deftly  calculated  to  flatter,  was  taken  in 
good  part,  and  bridged  over  the  difficulty  for  the  time 
being.  Nothing  was  taken  so  much  in  good  part  or 
seemed  to  soothe  the  feelings  of  the  rebellious  as  to  in 
clude  them  with  their  superiors  in  an  order  of  punish 
ment  which  on  the  very  first  day  of  the  cruise  it  had 
been  decided  was  necessary  to  lay  upon  all  the  guiding 
officers  of  the  plant.  We  could  not  hope  to  control 
them,  so  ostensibly  we  placed  them  in  irons,  or  low 
ered  them  in  boats,  classifying  them  as  mutineers  and 
the  foreman's  office  as  the  lock-up.  It  went  well. 

"Oh  no,  oh  no,  I  don't  want  to  be  put  in  that  class," 
old  Bowers  replied,  the  flattering  unction  having 
smoothed  his  ruffled  soul.  "I'm  not  so  bad  as  all 
that." 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     313 

"Very  well,  then,"  I  replied  briskly.  "What  do 
you  think,  Captain?" 

The  latter  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 

"Do  you  think  we  kin  let  him  go  this  wunst?"  he 
inquired  of  me. 

"Sure,  sure,"  I  replied.  "If  he's  certain  he  doesn't 
want  to  join  the  superintendent  and  the  foreman." 

Old  Bowers  went  away  smiling,  seemingly  con 
vinced  that  we  were  going  to  run  the  boat  in  ship 
shape  fashion,  and  before  long  most  of  the  good- 
natured  members  of  the  crew  consented  to  have  them 
selves  called  able  seamen. 

For  nearly  a  month  thereafter,  during  all  the  finest 
summer  weather,  there  existed  the  most  charming  life 
aboard  this  ideal  vessel.  We  used  the  shop  and  all  its 
details  for  the  idlest  purposes  of  our  fancy.  Ham 
mers  became  belaying  pins,  the  machines  of  the  shop 
ship's  ballast,  the  logs  in  the  yard  floating  debris. 
When  the  yard  became  too  cluttered,  as  it  did  once, 
we  pretended  we  were  in  Sargasso  and  had  to  cut  our 
way  out — a  process  that  took  quite  a  few  days.  We 
were  about  all  day  commenting  on  the  weather  in 
nautical  phrases,  sighting  strange  vessels,  reporting 
disorders  or  mutiny  on  the  part  of  the  officers  in  irons, 
or  the  men,  or  announcing  the  various  "bells,"  light 
houses,  etc. 

In  an  evil  hour,  however,  we  lit  upon  the  wretched 
habit  of  pitching  upon  little  Ike,  the  butt  of  a  thousand 
quips.  Being  incapable  of  grasping  the  true  edge  of 
our  humor,  he  was  the  one  soul  who  was  yet  genial 
enough  to  take  it  and  not  complain.  We  called  upon 
him  to  shovel  ashes,  to  split  the  wood,  to  run  aft,  that 


3H     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

was,  to  the  back  gate,  and  see  how  the  water  stood. 
More  than  once  he  was  threatened  with  those  same 
"irons"  previously  mentioned,  and  on  one  occasion 
we  actually  dragged  in  a  length,  pretending  to  bind 
him  with  it  and  fasten  him  to  the  anvil  (with  the 
bos'n's  consent,  of  course),  which  resulted  in  a  hearty 
struggle,  almost  a  row.  We  told  him  we  would  put 
him  in  an  old  desk  crate  we  had,  a  prison,  no  less, 
and  once  or  twice,  in  a  spirit  of  deviltry,  John  tried 
to  carry  out  his  threat,  nailing  him  in,  much  against  his 
will.  Finally  we  went  to  the  length  of  attempting  to 
physically  enforce  our  commands  when  he  did  not  obey, 
which  of  course  ended  in  disaster. 

It  was  this  way.  Ike  was  in  the  habit  of  sweeping 
up  his  room — the  smith's  shop — at  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  which  was  really  not  reasonable  consider 
ing  that  there  were  three  hours  of  work  ahead  of  all 
of  us,  and  that  he  was  inclined  to  resent  having  his 
fine  floor  mussed  up  thereafter.  On  the  other  hand 
I  had  to  carry  shavings  through  there  all  this  time,  and 
it  was  a  sore  temptation  to  drop  a  few  now  and  then 
just  for  the  devil's  sake.  After  due  consultation  with 
the  captain,  I  once  requested  him  to  order  that  the 
bos'n's  mate  leave  the  floor  untouched  until  half  past' 
four,  at  least,  which  was  early  enough.  The  bos'n's 
mate  replied  with  the  very  cheering  news  that  the  cap 
tain  could  "go  to  the  devil."  He  wasn't  going  to  kill 
himself  for  anybody,  and  besides,  the  foreman  had 
once  told  him  he  might  do  this  if  he  chose,  heaven  only 
knows  why.  What  did  the  captain  think  that  he  (the 
bos'n's  mate)  was,  anyhow? 

Here  at  last  was  a  stiff  problem.  Mutiny !  Mutiny ! 
Mutiny!  What  was  to  be  done?  Plainly  this  was 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     315 

inconveniencing  the  mate  and  besides,  it  was  mutiny. 
And  in  addition  it  so  lacerated  our  sense  of  dignity 
and  order  that  we  decided  it  could  not  be.  Only, 
how  to  arrange  it.  We  had  been  putting  so  much 
upon  the  bos'n's  mate  of  late  that  he  was  be 
coming  a  little  rebellious,  and  justly  so,  I  think.  He 
was  always  doing  a  dozen  things  he  need  not  have 
done.  Still,  unless  we  could  command  him,  the  whole 
official  management  of  this  craft  would  go  by  the 
board,  or  so  we  thought.  Finally  we  decided  to  act, 
but  how?  Direct  orders,  somehow,  were  somewhat 
difficult  to  enforce.  After  due  meditation  we  took  the 
bos'n,  a  most  approving  officer  and  one  who  loved  to 
tease  Ike  (largely  because  he  wanted  to  feel  superior 
himself,  I  think),  into  our  confidence  and  one  late 
afternoon  just  after  Ike  had,  figuratively  speaking, 
swabbed  up  the  deck,  the  latter  sent  him  to  some  other 
part  of  the  shop,  or  vessel,  rather,  while  we  strewed 
shavings  over  his  newly  cleaned  floor  with  a  shameless 
and  lavish  hand.  It  was  intensely  delicious,  causing 
gales  of  laughter  at  the  time — but — .  Ike  came 
back  and  cleaned  this  up — not  without  a  growl,  how 
ever.  He  did  not  take  it  in  the  cheerful  spirit  in  which 
we  hoped  he  would.  In  fact  he  was  very  morose  about 
it,  calling  us  names  and  threatening  to  go  to  the  fore 
man  [in  the  lock-up]  if  we  did  it  again.  However,  in 
spite  of  all,  and  largely  because  of  the  humorous  spec 
tacle  he  in  his  rage  presented  we  did  it  not  once,  but 
three  or  four  times  and  that  after  he  had  most  labori 
ously  cleaned  his  room.  A  last  assault  one  afternoon, 
however,  resulted  in  a  dash  on  his  part  to  the  fore^ 
man's  office. 

"I'm  not  goin'  to  stand  it,"  he  is  declared  to  have  said 


316     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

by  one  who  was  by  at  the  time  when  he  appeared  in 
front  of  that  official.  "They're  strewin'  up  my  floor 
with  shavin's  two  an'  three  times  every  day  after  I've 
cleaned  it  up  for  the  day.  I'll  quit  first." 

The  foreman,  that  raw,  non-humorous  person  pre 
viously  described,  who  evidently  sympathized  with  Ike 
and  who,  in  addition,  from  various  sources,  had  long 
since  learned  what  was  going  on,  came  down  in  a 
trice.  He  had  decided  to  stop  this  nonsense. 

"I  want  you  fellows  to  cut  that  out  now/'  he  de 
clared  vigorously  on  seeing  us.  "It's  all  right,  but  it 
won't  do.  Don't  rub  it  in.  Let  him  alone.  I've  heard 
of  this  ship  stuff.  It's  all  damn  nonsense." 

The  captain  and  mate  gazed  at  each  other  in  sad 
solemnity.  Could  it  be  that  Ike  had  turned  traitor? 
This  was  anarchy.  He  had  not  only  complained  of 
us  but  of  the  ship! — the  Idlewild!  What  snakiness 
of  soul !  We  retired  to  a  corner  of  our  now  storm- 
tossed  vessel  and  consulted  in  whispers.  What  would 
we  do?  Would  we  let  her  sink  or  try  to  save  her? 
Perhaps  it  was  advisable  for  the  present  to  cease 
pushing  the  joke  too  far  in  that  quarter,  anyhow.  Ike 
might  cause  the  whole  ship  to  be  destroyed. 

Nevertheless,  even  yet  there  were  ways  and  ways  of 
keeping  her  afloat  and  punishing  an  insubordinate 
even  when  no  official  authority  existed.  Ike  had  loved 
the  engineroom,  or  rather,  the  captain's  office,  above 
all  other  parts  of  the  vessel  because  it  was  so  com 
fortable.  Here  between  tedious  moments  of  pounding 
iron  for  the  smith  or  blowing  the  bellows  or  polishing 
various  tools  that  had  been  sharpened,  he  could  retire 
on  occasion,  when  the  boss  was  not  about  and  the  work 
not  pressing  (it  was  the  very  next  room  to  his)  and 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     317 

gaze  from  the  captain's  door  or  window  out  on  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Hudson  where  lay  the  yachts,  and 
up  the  same  stream  where  stood  the  majestic  palisades. 
At  noon  or  a  little  before  he  could  bring  his  cold  coffee, 
sealed  in  a  tin  can,  to  the  captain's  engine  and  warm  it. 
Again,  the  captain's  comfortable  locker  held  his  coat 
and  hat,  the  captain's  wash  bowl — a  large  wooden  tub 
to  one  side  of  the  engine  into  which  comforting  warm 
water  could  be  drawn — served  as  an  ideal  means  of 
washing  up.  Since  the  bos'n's  mate  had  become 
friendly  with  the  captain,  he  too  had  all  these  privi 
leges.  But  now,  in  view  of  his  insubordination,  all 
this  was  changed.  Why  should  a  rebellious  bos'n's 
mate  be  allowed  to  obtain  favors  of  the  captain? 
More  in  jest  than  in  earnest  one  day  it  was  announced 
that  unless  the  bos'n's  mate  would  forego  his  angry 
opposition  to  a  less  early  scrubbed  deck 

"Well,  mate,"  the  captain  observed  to  the  latter  in 
the  presence  of  the  bos'n's  mate,  with  a  lusty  wink 
and  a  leer,  "you  know  how  it  goes  with  these  here  in- 
i  subordinates,  don't  you  ?  No  more  hot  coffee  at  noon 
time,  unless  there's  more  order  here.  No  more  clean- 
in'  up  in  the  captain's  tub.  No  more  settin'  in  the  cap 
tain's  window  takin'  in  the  cool  mornin'  breeze,  as  well 
as  them  yachts.  What  say  ?  Eh  ?  We  know  what  to 
do  with  these  here  now  insubordinates,  don't  we,  mate, 
eh?"  This  last  with  a  very  huge  wink. 

"You're  right,  Captain.  Very  right,"  the  mate  re 
plied.  "You're  on  the  right  track  now.  No  more 

favors — unless Order  must  be  maintained,  you 

know." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  replied  little  Ike  now,  fully  in  ear 
nest  and  thinking  we  were.  "If  I  can't,  I  can't.  Jist 


318     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

the  same  I  don't  pick  up  no  shavin's  after  four/'  and 
off  he  strolled. 

Think  of  it,  final  and  complete  mutiny,  and  there 
was  nothing  more  really  to  be  done. 

All  we  could  do  now  was  to  watch  him  as  he  idled 
by  himself  at  odd  free  moments  down  by  the  waterside 
in  an  odd  corner  of  the  point,  a  lonely  figure,  his  trou 
sers  and  coat  too  large,  his  hands  and  feet  too  big, 
his  yellow  teeth  protruding.  No  one  of  the  other 
workingmen  ever  seemed  to  be  very  enthusiastic  over 
Ike,  he  was  so  small,  so  queer;  no  one,  really,  but  the 
captain  and  the  mate,  and  now  they  had  deserted  him. 

It  was  tough. 

Yet  still  another  ill  descended  on  us  before  we  came 
to  the  final  loss,  let  us  say,  of  the  good  craft  Idlewild. 
In  another  evil  hour  the  captain  and  the  mate  them 
selves  fell  upon  the  question  of  priority,  a  matter 
which,  so  long  as  they  had  had  Ike  to  trifle  with,  had 
never  troubled  them.  Now  as  mate  and  the  originator 
of  this  sea -going  enterprise,  I  began  to  question  the 
authority  of  the  captain  himself  occasionally,  and  to 
insist  on  sharing  as  my  undeniable  privilege  all  the 
dignities  and  emoluments  of  the  office — to  wit:  the 
best  seat  in  the  window  where  the  wind  blew,  the 
morning  paper  when  the  boss  was  not  about,  the  right 
to  stand  in  the  doorway,  use  the  locker,  etc.  The 
captain  objected,  solely  on  the  ground  of  priority, 
mind  you,  and  still  we  fell  a-quarreling.  The  mate  in 
a  stormy,  unhappy  hour  was  reduced  by  the  captain  to 
the  position  of  mere  scullion,  and  ordered,  upon  pain 
of  personal  assault,  to  vacate  the  captain's  cabin.  The 
mate  reduced  the  captain  to  the  position  of  stoker  and 
stood  in  the  doorway  in  great  glee  while  the  latter, 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     319 

perforce,  owing  to  the  exigencies  of  his  position,  was 
compelled  to  stoke  whether  he  wanted  to  or  no.  It 
could  not  be  avoided.  The  engine  had  to  be  kept  go 
ing.  In  addition,  the  mate  had  brought  many  morn 
ing  papers,  an  occasional  cigar  for  the  captain,  etc. 
There  was  much  rancor  and  discord  and  finally  the 
whole  affair,  ship,  captain,  mate  and  all,  was  declared 
by  the  mate  to  be  a  creation  of  his  brain,  a  phantom, 
no  less,  and  that  by  his  mere  act  of  ignoring  it  the 
whole  ship — officers,  men,  masts,  boats,  sails — could 
be  extinguished,  scuttled,  sent  down  without  a  ripple 
to  that  limbo  of  seafaring  men,  the  redoubtable  Davy 
Jones's  locker. 

The  captain  was  not  inclined  to  believe  this  at  first. 
On  the  contrary,  like  a  good  skipper,  he  attempted  to 
sail  the  craft  alone.  Only,  unlike  the  mate,  he  lacked 
the  curious  faculty  of  turning  jest  and  fancy  into 
seeming  fact.  There  was  a  something  missing  which 
made  the  whole  thing  seem  unreal.  Like  two  rival 
generals,  we  now  called  upon  a  single  army  to  follow 
us  individually,  but  the  crew,  seeing  that  there  was  war 
in  the  cabin,  stood  off  in  doubt  and,  I  fancy,  indif 
ference.  It  was  not  important  enough  in  their  hard 
working  lives  to  go  to  the  length  of  risking  the  per 
sonal  ill-will  of  either  of  us,  and  so  for  want  of  agree 
ment,  the  ship  finally  disappeared. 

Yes,  she  went  down.  The  Idlewild  was  gone,  and 
with  her,  all  her  fine  seas,  winds,  distant  cities,  fogs, 
storms. 

For  a  time  indeed,  we  went  charily  by  each  other. 

Still  it  behooved  us,  seeing  how,  in  spite  of  our 
selves,  we  had  to  work  in  the  same  room  and 
there  was  no  way  of  getting  rid  of  each  other's  obnox- 


320     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

ious  presence,  to  find  a  common  ground  on  which  we 
could  work  and  talk.  There  had  never  been  any  real 
bitterness  between  us — just  jest,  you  know,  but  seri 
ous  jest,  a  kind  of  silent  sorrow  for  many  fine  things 
gone.  Yet  still  that  had  been  enough  to  keep  every 
thing  out  of  order.  Now  from  time  to  time  each  of 
us  thought  of  restoring  the  old  life  in  some  form, 
however  weak  it  might  be.  Without  some  form  of 
humor  the  shop  was  a  bore  to  the  mate  and  the  cap 
tain,  anyhow.  Finally  the  captain  sobering  to  his  old 
state,  and  the  routine  work  becoming  dreadfully  mo 
notonous,  both  mate  and  captain  began  to  think  of 
some  way  in  which  they,  at  least,  could  agree. 

"Remember  the  Idlewild,  Henry?"  asked  the  ex- 
captain  one  day  genially,  long  after  time  and  fair 
weather  had  glossed  over  the  wretched  memory  of 
previous  quarrels  and  dissensions. 

"That  I  do,  John,"  I  replied  pleasantly. 

"Great  old  boat  she  was,  wasn't  she,  Henry?" 

"She  was,  John." 

"An'  the  bos'n's  mate,  he  wasn't  such  a  bad  old 
scout,  was  he,  Henry,  even  if  he  wouldn't  quit  sweepin' 
up  the  shavin's?" 

"He  certainly  wasn't,  John.  He  was  a  fine  little 
fellow.  Remember  the  chains,  John  ?" 

"Haw !  Haw !"  echoed  that  worthy,  and  then,  "Do 
you  think  the  old  Idlewild  could  ever  be  found  where 
she's  lyin'  down  there  on  the  bottom,  mate?" 

"Well,  she  might,  Captain,  only  she'd  hardly  be  the 
same  old  boat  that  she  was  now  that  she's  been  down 
there  so  long,  would  she — all  these  dissensions  and  so 
on?  Wouldn't  it  be  easier  to  build  a  new  one — don't 
you  think?" 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD"     321 

"I  don't  know  but  what  you're  right,  mate.  What'd 
we  call  her  if  we  did?" 

"Well,  how  about  the  Harmony,  Captain?  That 
sounds  rather  appropriate,  doesn't  it  ?" 

'The  Harmony,  mate?  You're  right — the  Har 
mony.  Shall  we  ?  Put  'er  there !" 

"Put  her  there,"  replied  the  mate  with  a  will. 
"We'll  organize  a  new  crew  right  away,  Captain — eh, 
don't  you  think?" 

"Right!  Wait,  we'll  call  the  bos'n  an'  see  what  he 
says." 

Just  then  the  bos'n  appeared,  smiling  goodnatured- 

ly- 

"Well,  what's  up?"  he  inquired,  noting  our  unusual 
ly  cheerful  faces,  I  presume.  "You  ain't  made  it  up, 
have  you,  you  two?"  he  exclaimed. 

"That's  what  we  have,  bos'n,  an'  what's  more,  we're 
thinkin'  of  raisin'  the  old  Idlewild  an'  re-namin'  her 
the  Harmony,  or,  rather,  buildin'  a  new  one.  What 
say?"  It  was  the  captain  talking. 

"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear  it,  only  I  don't  think 
you  can  have  your  old  bos'n' s  mate  any  longer,  boys. 
He's  gonna  quit." 

"Gonna  quit!"  we  both  exclaimed  at  once,  and  sad 
ly,  and  John  added  seriously  and  looking  really  dis 
tressed,  "What's  the  trouble  there?  Who's  been  doin' 
anything  to  him  now?"  We  both  felt  guilty  because 
of  our  part  in  his  pains. 

"Well,  Ike  kind  o'  feels  that  the  shop's  been  rub- 
bin'  it  into  him  of  late  for  some  reason,"  observed  the 
bos'n  heavily.  "I  don't  know  why.  He  thinks  you  two 
have  been  tryin'  to  freeze  him  out,  I  guess.  Says  he 


322     THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  "IDLEWILD" 

can't  do  anything  any  more,  that  everybody  makes  fun 
of  him  and  shuts  him  out." 

We  stared  at  each  other  in  wise  illumination,  the 
new  captain  and  the  new  mate.  After  all,  we  were 
plainly  the  cause  of  poor  little  Ike's  depression,  and  we 
were  the  ones  who  could  restore  him  to  favor  if  we 
chose.  It  was  the  captain's  cabin  he  sighed  for — his 
old  pleasant  prerogatives. 

"Oh,  we  can't  lose  Ike,  Captain,"  I  said.  "What 
good  would  the  Harmony  be  without  him  ?  We  surely 
can't  let  anything  like  that  happen,  can  we  ?  Not  now, 
anyhow." 

"You're  right,  mate,"  he  replied.  "There  never  was 
a  better  bos'n's  mate,  never.  The  Harmony's  got  to 
have  'im.  Let's  talk  reason  to  him,  if  we  can." 

In  company  then  we  three  went  to  him,  this  time  not 
to  torment  or  chastise,  but  to  coax  and  plead  with  him 
not  to  forsake  the  shop,  or  the  ship,  now  that  every 
thing  was  going  to  be  as  before — only  better — and 

Well,  we  did. 


MARRIED 

TN  connection  with  their  social  adjustment,  one  to  the 
*•  other,  during  the  few  months  they  had  been  to 
gether,  there  had  occurred  a  number  of  things  which 
made  clearer  to  Duer  and  Marjorie  the  problematic 
relationship  which  existed  between  them,  though  it 
must  be  confessed  it  was  clearer  chiefly  to  him.  The 
one  thing  which  had  been  troubling  Duer  was  not 
whether  he  would  fit  agreeably  into  her  social  dreams 
— he  knew  he  would,  so  great  was  her  love  for  him 
— but  whether  she  would  fit  herself  into  his.  Of 
all  his  former  friends,  he  could  think  of  only  a  few 
who  would  be  interested  in  Marjorie,  or  she  in  them. 
She  cared  nothing  for  the  studio  life,  except  as  it  con 
cerned  him,  and  he  knew  no  other. 

Because  of  his  volatile,  enthusiastic  temperament, 
it  was  easy  to  see,  now  that  she  was  with  him  con 
stantly,  that  he  could  easily  be  led  into  one  relation 
ship  and  another  which  concerned  her  not  at  all.  He 
was  for  running  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  just 
as  he  had  before  marriage,  and  it  was  very  hard  for 
him  to  see  that  Marjorie  should  always  be  with  him. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  occurred  to  him  as  strange 
that  she  should  want  to  be.  She  would  not  be  in 
terested  in  all  the  people  he  knew,  he  thought.  Now 
that  he  was  living  with  her  and  observing  her  more 
closely,  he  was  quite  sure  that  most  of  the  people  he 

323 


324  MARRIED 

had  known  in  the  past,  even  in  an  indifferent  way, 
would  not  appeal  to  her  at  all. 

Take  Cassandra  Draper,  for  instance,  or  Neva  Bad 
ger,  or  Edna  Bainbridge,  with  her  budding  theatrical 
talent,  or  Cornelia  Skiff,  or  Volida  Blackstone — any 
of  these  women  of  the  musical  art-studio  world  with 
their  radical  ideas,  their  indifference  to  appearances, 
their  semisecret  immorality.  And  yet  any  of  these 
women  would  be  glad  to  see  him  socially,  unaccom 
panied  by  his  wife,  and  he  would  be  glad  to  see  them. 
He  liked  them.  Most  of  them  had  not  seen  Marjorie, 
but,  if  they  had,  he  fancied  that  they  would  feel  about 
her  much  as  he  did — that  is,  that  she  did  not  like  them, 
really  did  not  fit  with  their  world.  She  could  not  un 
derstand  their  point  of  view,  he  saw  that.  She  was 
for  one  life,  one  love.  All  this  excitement  about  en 
tertainment,  their  gathering  in  this  studio  and  that, 
this  meeting  of  radicals  and  models  and  budding  the 
atrical  stars  which  she  had  heard  him  and  others  talk 
ing  about — she  suspected  of  it  no  good  results.  It 
was  too  feverish,  too  far  removed  from  the  common 
place  of  living  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed. 
She  had  been  raised  on  a  farm  where,  if  she  was  not 
actually  a  farmer's  daughter,  she  had  witnessed  what 
a  real  struggle  for  existence  meant. 

Out  in  Iowa,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Avondale,  there 
were  no  artists,  no  models,  no  budding  actresses,  no 
incipient  playwrights,  such  as  Marjorie  found  here 
about  her.  There,  people  worked,  and  worked  hard. 
Her  father  was  engaged-  at  this  minute  in  breaking  the 
soil  of  his  fields  for  the  spring  planting — an  old  man 
with  a  white  beard,  an  honest,  kindly  eye,  a  broad, 
kindly  charity,  a  sense  of  duty.  Her  mother  was 


MARRIED  325 

bending  daily  over  a  cook-stove,  preparing  meals, 
washing  dishes,  sewing  clothes,  mending  socks,  doing 
the  thousand  and  one  chores  which  fall  to  the  lot  of 
every  good  housewife  and  mother.  Her  sister  Cecily, 
for  all  her  gaiety  and  beauty,  was  helping  her  mother, 
teaching  school,  going  to  church,  and  taking  the  com 
monplace  facts  of  mid- Western  life  in  a  simple,  good- 
natured,  unambitious  way.  And  there  was  none  of 
that  toplofty  sense  of  superiority  which  marked  the 
manner  of  these  Eastern  upstarts. 

Duer  had  suggested  that  they  give  a  tea,  and  decided 
that  they  should  invite  Charlotte  Russell  and  Mildred 
Ayres,  who  were  both  still  conventionally  moral  in 
their  liberalism;  Francis  Hatton,  a  young  sculptor, 
and  Miss  Ollie  Stearns,  the  latter  because  she  had 
a  charming  contralto  voice  and  could  help  them  en 
tertain.  Marjorie  was  willing  to  invite  both  Miss  Rus 
sell  and  Miss  Ayres,  not  because  she  really  wanted 
to  know  either  of  them  but  because  she  did  not  wish 
to  appear  arbitrary  and  especially  contrary.  In  her 
estimation,  Duer  liked  these  people  too  much.  They 
were  friends  of  too  long  standing.  She  reluctantly 
wrote  them  to  come,  and  because  they  liked  Duer  and 
because  they  wished  to  see  the  kind  of  wife  he  had,  they 
came. 

There  was  no  real  friendship  to  be  established  be 
tween  Marjorie  and  Miss  Ayres,  however,  for  their 
outlook  on  life  was  radically  different,  though  Miss 
Ayres  was  as  conservative  as  Marjorie  in  her  attitude, 
and  as  set  in  her  convictions.  But  the  latter  had  de 
cided,  partly  because  Duer  had  neglected  her,  partly 
because  Marjorie  was  the  victor  in  this  contest,  that  he 
had  made  a  mistake;  she  was  convinced  that  Marjorie 


326  MARRIED 

had  not  sufficient  artistic  apprehension,  sufficient 
breadth  of  outlook,  to  make  a  good  wife  for  him.  She 
was  charming  enough  to  look  at,  of  course,  she  had 
discovered  that  in  her  first  visit;  but  there  was  really 
not  enough  in  her  socially,  she  was  not  sufficiently 
trained  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  not  sufficiently  wise 
and  interesting  to  make  him  an  ideal  companion.  In 
addition  she  insisted  on  thinking  this  vigorously  and, 
smile  as  she  might  and  be  as  gracious  as  she  might,  it 
showed  in  her  manner.  Marjorie  noticed  it.  Duer 
did,  too.  He  did  not  dare  intimate  to  either  what  he 
thought,  but  he  felt  that  there  would  be  no  peace.  It 
worried  him,  for  he  liked  Mildred  very  much;  but, 
alas!  Marjorie  had  no  good  to  say  of  her. 

As  for  Charlotte  Russell,  he  was  grateful  to  her 
for  the  pleasant  manner  in  which  she  steered  between 
Scylla  and  Charybdis.  She  saw  at  once  what  Mar 
jorie' s  trouble  was,  and  did  her  best  to  allay  suspicions 
by  treating  Duer  formally  in  her  presence.  It  was 
"Mr.  Wilde"  here  and  "Mr.  Wilde"  there,  with  most 
of  her  remarks  addressed  to  Marjorie ;  but  she  did  not 
find  it  easy  sailing,  after  all.  Marjorie  was  suspicious. 
There  was  none  of  the  old  freedom  any  more  which 
had  existed  between  Charlotte  and  Duer.  He  saw,  by 
Marjorie's  manner,  the  moment  he  became  the  least 
exuberant  and  free  that  it  would  not  do.  That  even 
ing  he  said,  forgetting  himself : 

''Hey,  Charlotte,  you  skate!  Come  over  here.  I 
want  to  show  you  something." 

He  forgot  all  about  it  afterward,  but  Marjorie  re 
minded  him. 

"Honey,"  she  began,  when  she  was  in  his  arms  be 
fore  the  fire,  and  he  was  least  expecting  it,  "what 


MARRIED  327 

makes  you  be  so  free  with  people  when  they  call  here  ? 
You're  not  the  kind  of  man  that  can  really  afford  to 
be  free  with  any  one.  Don't  you  know  you  can't? 
You're  too  big;  you're  too  great.  You  just  belittle 
yourself  when  you  da  it,  and  it  makes  them  think  that 
they  are  your  equal  when  they  are  not." 

"Who  has  been  acting  free  now?"  he  asked  sourly, 
on  the  instant,  and  yet  with  a  certain  make-believe  of 
manner,  dreading  the  storm  of  feeling,  the  atmosphere 
of  censure  and  control  which  this  remark  forboded. 

"Why,  you  have!"  she  persisted  correctively,  and 
yet  apparently  mildly  and  innocently.  "You  always 
do.  You  don't  exercise  enough  dignity,  dearie.  It 
isn't  that  you  haven't  it  naturally — you  just  don't  ex 
ercise  it.  I  know  how  it  is;  you  forget." 

Duer  stirred  with  opposition  at  this,  for  she  was 
striking  him  on  his  tenderest  spot — his  pride.  It  was 
true  that  he  did  lack  dignity  at  times.  He  knew  it. 
Because  of  his  affection  for  the  beautiful  or  interest 
ing  things — women,  men,  dramatic  situations,  songs, 
anything — he  sometimes  became  very  gay  and  free, 
talking  loudly,  using  slang  expressions,  laughing  bois 
terously.  It  was  a  failing  with  him,  he  knew.  He  car 
ried  it  to  excess  at  times.  His  friends,  his  most  inti 
mate  ones  in  the  musical  profession  had  noted  it 
before  this.  In  his  own  heart  he  regretted  these 
things  afterward,  but  he  couldn't  help  them,  appar 
ently.  He  liked  excitement,  freedom,  gaiety — natural 
ness,  as  he  called  it — it  helped  him  in  his  musical 
work,  but  it  hurt  him  tremendously  if  he  thought 
that  any  one  else  noticed  it  as  out  of  the  ordi 
nary.  He  was  exceedingly  sensitive,  and  this  de 
veloping  line  of  criticism  of  Marjorie's  was  something 


328  MARRIED 

new  to  him.  He  had  never  noticed  anything  of  that 
in  her  before  marriage. 

Up  to  the  time  of  the  ceremony,  and  for  a  little 
while  afterward,  it  had  appeared  to  him  as  if  he  were 
lord  and  master.  She  had  always  seemed  so  depen 
dent  on  him,  so  anxious  that  he  should  take  her. 
Why,  her  very  life  had  been  in  his  hands,  as  it  were, 
or  so  he  had  thought!  And  now — he  tried  to  think 
back  over  the  evening  and  see  what  it  was  he  had  done 
or  said,  but  he  couldn't  remember  anything.  Every 
thing  seemed  innocent  enough.  He  couldn't  recall  a 
single  thing,  and  yet 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he  re 
plied  sourly,  withdrawing  into  himself.  "I  haven't  no 
ticed  that  I  lack  dignity  so  much.  I  have  a  right  to  be 
cheerful,  haven't  I?  You  seem  to  be  finding  a  lot 
that's  wrong  with  me." 

"Now  please  don't  get  angry,  Duer,"  she  persisted, 
anxious  to  apply  the  corrective  measure  of  her  criti 
cism,  but  willing,  at  the  same  time,  to  use  the  quickness 
of  his  sympathy  for  her  obvious  weakness  and  appa 
rent  helplessness  to  shield  herself  from  him.  "I  can't 
ever  tell  you  anything  if  you're  going  to  be  angry. 
You  don't  lack  dignity  generally,  honey-bun!  You 
only  forget  at  times.  Don't  you  know  how  it  is?" 

She  was  cuddling  up  to  him,  her  voice  quavering, 
her  hand  stroking  his  cheek,  in  a  curious  effort  to  com 
bine  affection  and  punishment  at  the  same  time.  Duer 
felt  nothing  but  wrath,  resentment,  discouragement, 
failure. 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  replied  crossly.  "What  did  I  do? 
I  don't  recall  doing  anything  that  was  so  very  much 
out  of  the  way." 


MARRIED  329 

"It  wasn't  that  it  was  so  very  much,  honey;  it  was 
just  the  way  you  did  it.  You  forget,  I  know.  But  it 
doesn't  look  right.  It  belittles  you." 

"What  did  I  do?"  he  insisted  impatiently. 

"Why,  it  wasn't  anything  so  very  much.  It  was  just 
when  you  had  the  pictures  of  those  new  sculptures 
which  Mr.  Hatton  lent  you,  and  you  were  showing 
them  to  Miss  Russell.  Don't  you  remember  what  you 
said — how  you  called  her  over  to  you?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  having  by  now  completely  for 
gotten.  He  was  thinking  that  accidentally  he  might 
have  slipped  his  arm  about  Charlotte,  or  that  he  might 
have  said  something  out  of  the  way  jestingly  about  the 
pictures;  but  Marjorie  could  not  have  heard.  He  was 
so  careful  these  days,  anyway. 

"Why,  you  said :  'Hey,  Charlotte,  you  skate !  Come 
over  here.'  Now,  what  a  thing  to  say  to  a  girl !  Don't 
you  see  how  ugly  it  sounds,  how  vulgar?  She  can't 
enjoy  that  sort  of  remark,  parti cularly* in  my  presence, 
do  you  think  ?  She  must  know  that  I  can't  like  it,  that 
I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  talk  that  way,  particularly  here. 
And  if  she  were  the  right  sort  of  girl  she  wouldn't 
want  you  to  talk  to  her  at  all  that  way.  Don't  you 
know  she  wouldn't?  She  couldn't.  Now,  really,  no 
good  woman  would,  would  she  ?" 

Duer  flushed  angrily.  Good  heaven!  Were  such 
innocent,  simple  things  as  this  to  be  made  the  subject 
of  comment  and  criticism!  Was  his  life,  because  of 
his  sudden,  infatuated  marriage,  to  be  pulled  down 
to  a  level  he  had  never  previously  even  contemplated? 
Why — why —  This  catechising,  so  new  to  his  life, 
so  different  to  anything  he  had  ever  endured  in  his 
youth  or  since,  was  certain  to  irritate  him  greatly,  to 


330  MARRIED 

be  a  constant  thorn  in  his  flesh.  It  cut  him  to  the 
core.  He  got  up,  putting  Marjorie  away  from  him, 
for  they  were  sitting  in  a  big  chair  before  the  fire, 
and  walked  to  the  window. 

"I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  he  said  stubbornly.  "I 
don't  see  anything  in  that  remark  to  raise  a  row  about. 
Why,  for  goodness'  sake!  I  have  known  Charlotte 
Russell — for  years  and  years,  it  seems,  although  it 
has  only  been  a  little  while  at  that.  She's  like  a  sister 
to  me.  I  like  her.  She  doesn't  mind  what  I  say.  I'd 
stake  my  life  she  never  thought  anything  about  it.  No 
one  would  who  likes  me  as  well  as  she  does.  Why 
do  you  pitch  on  that  to  make  a  fuss  about,  for  heaven's 
sake?" 

"Please  don't  swear,  Duer,"  exclaimed  Marjorie 
anxiously,  using  this  expression  for  criticising  him 
further.  "It  isn't  nice  in  you,  and  it  doesn't  sound 
right  toward  me.  I'm  your  wife.  It  doesn't  make 
any  difference  how  long  you've  known  her;  I  don't 
think  it's  nice  to  talk  to  her  in  that  way,  particularly 
in  my  presence.  You  say  you've  known  her  so  well 
and  you  like  her  so  much.  Very  well.  But  don't  you 
think  you  ought  to  consider  me  a  little,  now  that  I'm 
your  wife?  Don't  you  think  that  you  oughtn't  to 
want  to  do  anything  like  that  any  more,  even  if  you 
have  known  her  so  well — don't  you  think?  You're 
married  now,  and  it  doesn't  look  right  to  others,  what 
ever  you  think  of  me.  It  can't  look  right  to  her,  if 
she's  as  nice  as  you  say  she  is." 

Duer  listened  to  this  semipleading,  semichastising 
harangue  with  disturbed,  opposed,  and  irritated  ears. 
Certainly,  there  was  some  truth  in  what  she  said;  but 
wasn't  it  an  awfully  small  thing  to  raise  a  row  about? 


MARRIED  331 

Why  should  she  quarrel  with  him  for  that  ?  Couldn't 
he  ever  be  lightsome  in  his  form  of  address  any  more? 
It  was  true  that  it  did  sound  a  little  rough,  now  that 
he  thought  of  it.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  exactly  the  thing 
to  say  in  her  presence,  but  Charlotte  didn't  mind. 
They  had  known  each  other  much  too  long.  She 
hadn't  noticed  it  one  way  or  the  other;  and  here  was 
Marjorie  charging  him  with  being  vulgar  and  incon 
siderate,  and  Charlotte  with  being  not  the  right  sort 
of  girl,  and  practically  vulgar,  also,  on  account  of  it. 
It  was  too  much.  It  was  too  narrow,  too  conven 
tional.  He  wasn't  going  to  tolerate  anything  like  that 
permanently. 

He  was  about  to  say  something  mean  in  reply,  make 
some  cutting  commentary,  when  Marjorie  came  over 
to  him.  She  saw  that  she  had  lashed  him  and  Char 
lotte  and  his  generally  easy  attitude  pretty  thoroughly, 
and  that  he  was  becoming  angry.  Perhaps,  because 
of  his  sensitiveness,  he  would  avoid  this  sort  of  thing 
in  the  future.  Anyhow,  now  that  she  had  lived  with 
him  four  months,  she  was  beginning  to  understand 
him  better,  to  see  the  quality  of  his  moods,  the  strength 
of  his  passions,  the  nature  of  his  weaknesses,  how 
quickly  'he  responded  to  the  blandishments  of  pre 
tended  sorrow,  joy,  affection,  or  distress.  She  thought 
she  could  reform  him  at  her  leisure.  She  saw  that 
he  looked  upon  her  in  his  superior  way  as  a  little 
girl — largely  because  of  the  size  of  her  body.  He 
seemed  to  think  that,  because  she  was  little,  she  must 
be  weak,  whereas  she  knew  that  she  had  the  use  and 
the  advantage  of  a  wisdom,  a  tactfulness  and  a  sub 
tlety  of  which  he  did  not  even  dream.  Compared  to 
her,  he  was  not  nearly  as  wise  as  he  thought,  at  least 


332  MARRIED 

in  matters  relating  to  the  affections.  Hence,  any 
appeal  to  his  sympathies,  his  strength,  almost  invari 
ably  produced  a  reaction  from  any  antagonistic  mood 
in  which  she  might  have  placed  him.  She  saw  him 
now  as  a  mother  might  see  a  great,  overgrown,  sulk 
ing  boy,  needing  only  to  be  coaxed  to  be  brought  out 
of  a  very  unsatisfactory  condition,  and  she'decided  to 
bring  him  out  of  it.  For  a  short  period  in  her  life 
she  had  taught  children  in  school,  and  knew  the  incipi 
ent  moods  of  the  race  very  well. 

"Now,  Duer,"  she  coaxed,  "you're  not  really  going 
to  be  angry  with  me,  are  you?  You're  not  going  to 
be  'mad  to  me'?"  (imitating  childish  language). 

"Oh,  don't  bother,  Marjorie,"  he  replied  distantly. 
"It's  all  right.  No;  I'm  not  angry.  Only  let's  net 
talk  about  it  any  more." 

"You  are  angry,  though,  Duer,"  she  wheedled,  slip 
ping  her  arm  around  him.  "Please  don't  be  mad  to 
me.  I'm  sorry  now.  I  talk  too  much.  I  get  mad. 
I  know  I  oughtn't.  Please  don't  be  mad  at  me, 
honey-bun.  I'll  get  over  this  after  a  while.  I'll  do 
better.  Please,  I  will.  Please  don't  be  mad,  will 
you?" 

He  could  not  stand  this  coaxing  very  long.  Just 
as  he  thought,  he  did  look  upon  her  as  a  child,  and 
this  pathetic  baby-talk  was  irresistible.  He  smiled 
grimly  after  a  while.  She  was  so  little.  He  ought 
to  endure  her  idiosyncrasies  of  temperament.  Be 
sides,  he  had  never  treated  her  right.  He  had  not 
been  faithful  to  his  engagement-vows.  If  she  only 
knew  how  bad  he  really  was! 

Marjorie  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  stood 
leaning  against  him.  She  loved  this  tall,  slender  dis- 


MARRIED  333 

tinguished-looking  youth,  and  she  wanted  to  take  care 
of  him.  She  thought  that  she  was  doing  this  now, 
when  she  called  attention  to  his  faults.  Some  day, 
by  her  persistent  efforts  maybe,  he  would  overcome 
these  silly,  disagreeable,  offensive  traits.  He  would 
overcome  being  undignified;  he  would  see  that  he 
needed  to  show  her  more  consideration  than  he  now 
seemed  to  think  he  did.  He  would  learn  that  he 
was  married.  He  would  become  a  quiet,  reserved, 
forceful  man,  weary  of  the  silly  women  who  were 
buzzing  round  him  solely  because  he  was  a  musician 
and  talented  and  good-looking,  and  then  he  would  be 
truly  great.  She  knew  what  they  wanted,  these  nasty 
women — they  would  like  to  have  him  for  themselves. 
Well,  they  wouldn't  get  him.  And  they  needn't  think 
they  would.  She  had  him.  He  had  married  her.  And 
she  was  going  to  keep  him.  They  could  just  buzz 
all  they  pleased,  but  they  wouldn't  get  him.  So  there ! 
There  had  been  other  spats  following  this — one  re 
lating  to  Duer  not  having  told  his  friends  of  his 
marriage  for  some  little  time  afterward,  an  oversight 
which  in  his  easy  going  bohemian  brain  augured  no 
deep  planted  seed  of  disloyalty,  but  just  a  careless, 
indifferent  way  of  doing  things,  whereas  in  hers  it 
flowered  as  one  of  the  most  unpardonable  things 
imaginable !  Imagine  any  one  in  the  Middle  West  do 
ing  anything  like  that — any  one  with  a  sound,  sane 
conception  of  the  responsibilities  and  duties  of  mar 
riage,  its  inviolable  character!  For  Marjorie,  having 
come  to  this  estate  by  means  of  a  hardly  won  victory, 
was  anxious  lest  any  germ  of  inattentiveness,  lack  of 
consideration,  alien  interest,  or  affection  flourish  and 
become  a  raging  disease  which  would  imperil  or  de- 


334  MARRIED 

stroy  the  conditions  on  which  her  happiness  was  based. 
After  every  encounter  with  Miss  Ayres,  for  instance, 
whom  she  suspected  of  being  one  of  his  former  flames, 
a  girl  who  might  have  become  his  wife,  there  were 
fresh  charges  to  be  made.  She  didn't  invite  Marjorie 
to  sit  down  sufficiently  quickly  when  she  called  at  her 
studio,  was  one  complaint;  she  didn't  offer  her  a  cup 
of  tea  at  the  hour  she  called  another  afternoon,  though 
it  was  quite  time  for  it.  She  didn't  invite  her  to  sing 
or  play  on  another  occasion,  though  there  were  others 
there  who  were  invited. 

"I  gave  her  one  good  shot,  though,"  said  Marjorie, 
one  day,  to  Duer,  in  narrating  her  troubles.  "She's 
always  talking  about  her  artistic  friends.  I  as  good 
as  asked  her  why  she  didn't  marry,  if  she  is  so  much 
sought  after." 

Duer  did  not  understand  the  mental  sword-thrusts 
involved  in  these  feminine  bickerings.  He  was  likely 
to  be  deceived  by  the  airy  geniality  which  sometimes 
accompanied  the  bitterest  feeling.  He  could  stand  by 
listening  to  a  conversation  between  Marjorie  and  Miss 
Ayres,  or  Marjorie  and  any  one  else  whom  she  did 
not  like,  and  miss  all  the  subtle  stabs  and  cutting  in 
sinuations  which  were  exchanged,  and  of  which  Mar 
jorie  was  so  thoroughly  capable.  He  did  not  blame 
her  for  fighting  for  herself  if  she  thought  she  was  be 
ing  injured,  but  he  did  object  to  her  creating  fresh 
occasions,  and  this,  he  saw,  she  was  quite  capable  of 
doing.  She  was  constantly  looking  for  new  opportu 
nities  to  fight  with  Mildred  Ayres  and  Miss  Russell 
or  any  one  else  whom  she  thought  he  truly  liked, 
whereas  with  those  in  whom  he  could  not  possibly 
be  interested  she  was  genial  (and  even  affectionate) 


MARRIED  335 

enough.  But  Duer  also  thought  that  Mildred  might 
be  better  engaged  than  in  creating  fresh  difficulties. 
Truly,  he  had  thought  better  of  her.  It  seemed  a  sad 
commentary  on  the  nature  of  friendship  between  men 
and  women,  and  he  was  sorry. 

But,  nevertheless,  Marjorie  found  a  few  people 
whom  she  felt  to  be  of  her  own  kind.  M.  Bland,  who 
had  sponsored  Duer's  first  piano  recital  a  few  months 
before,  invited  Duer  and  Marjorie  to  a — for  them — 
quite  sumptuous  dinner  at  the  Plaza,  where  they  met 
Sydney  Borg,  the  musical  critic  of  an  evening  paper; 
Melville  Ogden  Morris,  curator  of  the  Museum  of 
Fine  Arts,  and  his  wife;  Joseph  Newcorn,  one  of  the 
wealthy  sponsors  of  the  opera  and  its  geniuses,  and 
Mrs.  Newcorn.  Neither  Duer  nor  Marjorie  had  ever 
seen  a  private  dining-room  set  in  so  scintillating  a 
manner.  It  fairly  glittered  with  Sevres  and  Venetian 
tinted  glass.  The  wine-goblets  were  seven  in  num 
ber,  set  in  an  ascending  row.  The  order  of  food  was 
complete  from  Russian  caviare  to  dessert,  black  cof 
fee,  nuts,  liqueurs,  and  cigars. 

The  conversation  wandered  its  intense  intellectual 
way  from  American  musicians  and  singers,  European 
painters  and  sculptors,  discoveries  of  ancient  pottery 
in  the  isles  of  the  ^gean,  to  the  manufacture  of  fine 
glass  on  Long  Island,  the  character  of  certain  col 
lectors  and  collections  of  paintings  in  America,  and  the 
present  state  of  the  Fine  Arts  Museum.  Duer  lis 
tened  eagerly,  for,  as  yet,  he  was  a  little  uncertain  of 
himself  his  position  in  the  art  world.  He  did  not 
quite  know  how  to  take  these  fine  and  able  person 
ages  who  seemed  so  powerful  in  the  world's  affairs. 
Joseph  Newcorn,  as  M.  Bland  calmly  indicated  to  him, 


336  MARRIED 

must  be  worth  in  the  neighborhood  of  fifteen  million 
dollars.  He  thought  nothing,  so  he  said,  of  paying 
ten,  fifteen,  twenty,  thirty  thousand  dollars  for  a  pic 
ture  if  it  appealed  to  him.  Mr.  Morris  was  a  gradu 
ate  of  Harvard,  formerly  curator  of  a  Western  muse 
um,  the  leader  of  one  of  the  excavating  expeditions  +o 
Melos  in  the  Grecian  Archipelago.  Sydney  Borg  was 
a  student  of  musical  history,  who  appeared  to  have  a 
wide  knowledge  of  art  tendencies  here  and  abroad,  but 
who,  nevertheless,  wrote  musical  criticisms  for  a  living. 
He  was  a  little  man  of  Norse  extraction  on  his  fa 
ther's  side,  but,  as  he  laughingly  admitted,  born  and 
raised  in  McKeesport,  Pennsylvania.  He  liked  Duer 
for  his  simple  acknowledgment  of  the  fact  that  he 
came  from  a  small  town  in  the  Middle  West,  and  a 
drug  business  out  in  Illinois. 

"It's  curious  how  our  nation  brings  able  men  from 
the  ranks,"  he  said  to  Duer.  "It's  one  of  the  great, 
joyous,  hopeful  facts  about  this  country." 

"Yes,"  said  Duer;  "that's  why  I  like  it  so  much." 
Duer  thought,  as  he  dined  here,  how  strange  Amer 
ica  was,  with  its  mixture  of  races,  its  unexpected 
sources  of  talent,  its  tremendous  wealth  and  confi 
dence.  His  own  beginning,  so  very  humble  at  first,  so 
very  promising  now — one  of  the  most  talked  of 
pianists  of  his  day — was  in  its  way  an  illustration  of 
its  resources  in  so  .far  as  talent  was  concerned.  Mr. 
Newcorn,  who  had  once  been  a  tailor,  so  he  was  told, 
and  his  wife  was  another  case  in  point.  They  were 
such  solid,  unemotional,  practical-looking  people,  and 
yet  he  could  see  that  this  solid  looking  man  whom  some 
musicians  might  possibly  have  sneered  at  for  his  self- 
complacency  and  curiously  accented  English,  was  as 


MARRIED  337 

wise  and  sane  and  keen  and  kindly  as  any  one  present, 
perhaps  more  so,  and  as  wise  in  matters  musical. 
The  only  difference  between  him  and  the  average 
American  was  that  he  was  exceptionally  practical  and 
not  given  to  nervous  enthusiasm.  Marjorie  liked  him, 
too. 

It  was  at  this  particular  dinner  that  the  thought 
occurred  to  Marjorie  that  the  real  merit  of  the  art 
and  musical  world  was  not  so  much  in  the  noisy 
studio  palaver  which  she  heard  at  so  many  places 
frequented  by  Duer,  in  times  past  at  least — Char 
lotte  Russell's,  Mildred  Ayres's  and  elsewhere — but  in 
the  solid  commercial  achievements  of  such  men  as 
Joseph  Newcorn,  Georges  Bland,  Melville  Ogden  Mor 
ris,  and  Sydney  Borg.  She  liked  the  laconic  "Yes, 
yes,"  of  Mr.  Newcorn,  when  anything  was  said  that 
suited  him  particularly  well,  and  his  "I  haf  seen  dat 
bardicular  berformance"  with  which  he  interrupted 
several  times  when  Grand  Opera  and  its  stars  were  up 
for  consideration.  She  was  thinking  if  only  a  man 
like  that  would  take  an  interest  in  Duer,  how  much 
better  it  would  be  for  him  than  all  the  enthusiasm 
of  these  silly  noisy  studio  personalities.  She  was  glad 
to  see  also  that,  intellectually,  Duer  could  hold  his  own 
with  any  and  all  of  these  people.  He  was  as  much  at 
ease  here  with  Mr.  Morris,  talking  about  Greek  excava 
tions,  as  he  was  with  Mr.  Borg,  discussing  American 
musical  conditions.  She  could  not  make  out  much 
what  it  was  all  about,  but,  of  course,  it  must  be  very 
important  if  these  men  discussed  it.  Duer  was  not 
sure  as  yet  whether  any  one  knew  much  more  about 
life  than  he  did.  He  suspected  not,  but  it  might  be 
that  some  of  these  eminent  curators,  art  critics,  bank- 


338  MARRIED 

ers,  and  managers  like  M.  Bland,  had  a  much  wider 
insight  into  practical  affairs.  Practical  affairs — he 
thought.  If  he  only  knew  something  about  money! 
Somehow,  though,  his  mind  could  not  grasp  how 
money  was  made.  It  seemed  so  easy  for  some  people, 
but  for  him  a  grim,  dark  mystery. 

After  this  dinner  it  was  that  Marjorie  began  to 
feel  that  Duer  ought  to  be  especially  careful  with 
whom  he  associated.  She  had  talked  with  Mrs.  New- 
corn  and  Mrs.  Morris,  and  found  them  simple,  natu 
ral  people  like  herself.  They  were  not  puffed  up  with 
vanity  and  self-esteem,  as  were  those  other  men  and 
women  to  whom  Duer  had  thus  far  introduced  her. 
As  compared  to  Charlotte  Russell  and  Mildred  Ayres 
or  her  own  mother  and  sisters  and  her  Western 
friends,  they  were  more  like  the  latter.  Mrs.  New- 
corn,  wealthy  as  she  was,  spoke  of  her  two  sons  and 
three  daughters  as  any  good-natured,  solicitous  mother 
would.  One  of  her  sons  was  at  Harvard,  the  other 
at  Yale.  She  asked  Marjorie  to  come  and  see  her 
some  time,  and  gave  her  her  address.  Mrs.  Morris 
was  more  cultured  apparently,  more  given  to  books 
and  art ;  but  even  she  was  interested  in  what,  to  Mar 
jorie,  were  the  more  important  or,  at  least,  more 
necessary  things,  the  things  on  which  all  art  and  cul 
ture  primarily  based  themselves — the  commonplace 
and  necessary  details  of  the  home.  Cooking,  house 
keeping,  shopping,  sewing,  were  not  beneath  her  con 
sideration,  as  indeed  they  were  not  below  Mrs.  New- 
corn's.  The  former  spoke  of  having  to  go  and  look 
for  a  new  spring  bonnet 'in  the  morning,  and  how 
difficult  it  was  to  find  the  time.  Once  when  the  men 


MARRIED  339 

were  getting  especially  excited  about  European  and 
American  artistic  standards,  Marjorie  asked: 

"Are  you  very  much  interested  in  art,  Mrs.  Mor 
ris?" 

"Not  so  very  much,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Wilde.  Oh,  I  like  some  pictures,  and  I  hear  most  of 
the  important  recitals  each  season,  but,  as  I  often  tell 
my  husband,  when  you  have  one  baby  two  years  old 
and  another  of  five  and  another  of  seven,  it  takes  con 
siderable  time  to  attend  to  the  art  of  raising  them.  I 
let  him  do  the  art  for  the  family,  and  I  take  care  of 
the  home." 

This  was  sincere  consolation  for  Marjorie.  Up  to 
this  time  she  appeared  to  be  in  danger  of  being 
swamped  by  this  artistic  storm  which  she  had  encoun 
tered.  Her  arts  of  cooking,  sewing,  housekeeping, 
appeared  as  nothing  in  this  vast  palaver  about  music, 
painting,  sculpture,  books  and  the  like.  She  knew 
nothing,  as  she  had  most  painfully  discovered  recently, 
of  Strauss,  Dvorak,  Debussy,  almost  as  little  of 
Cezanne,  Goguin,  Matisse,  Van  Gogh,  Rodin,  Ibsen, 
Shaw  and  Maeterlinck,  with  whom  the  studios  were 
apparently  greatly  concerned.  And  when  people  talked 
of  singers,  musicians,  artists,  sculptors,  and  play 
wrights,  often  she  was  compelled  to  keep  -silent, 
whereas  Duer  could  stand  with  his  elbow  on  some 
mantel  or  piano  and  discuss  by  the  half  hour  or  hour 
individuals  of  whom  she  had  never  heard — Verlaine, 
Tchaikowsky,  Tolstoy,  Turgenieff,  Tagore,  Dostoyev- 
sky,  Whistler,  Velasquez — anybody  and  everybody 
who  appeared  to  interest  the  studio  element.  It  was 
positively  frightening. 

A  phase  of  this  truth  was  that  because  of  his  desire 


340  MARRIED 

to  talk,  his  pleasure  in  meeting  people,  his  joy  in 
hearing  of  new  things,  his  sense  of  the  dramatic,  Duer 
could  catch  quickly  and  retain  vigorously  anything 
which  related  to  social,  artistic,  or  intellectual  develop 
ment.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  a  full-orbed,  radiant, 
receptive  thing  his  mind  was.  He  only  knew  that  life, 
things,  intellect — anything  and  everything — gave  him 
joy  when  he  was  privileged  to  look  into  them,  whereas 
Marjorie  was  not  so  keenly  minded  artistically,  and 
he  gave  as  freely  as  he  received.  In  this  whirl  of 
discussion,  this  lofty  transcendentalism,  Marjorie  was 
all  but  lost;  but  she  clung  tenaciously  to  the  hope 
that,  somehow,  affection,  regard  for  the  material  needs 
of  her  husband,  the  care  of  his  clothes,  the  prepara 
tion  of  his  meals,  the  serving  of  him  quite  as  would  a 
faithful  slave,  would  bind  him  to  her.  At  once  and 
quickly,  she  hated  and  feared  these  artistically  arrayed, 
artistically  minded,  vampirish-looking  maidens  and 
women  who  appeared  from  this  quarter  and  that  to 
talk  to  Duer,  all  of  whom  apparently  had  known  him 
quite  well  in  the  past — since  he  had  come  to  New  York. 
When  she  would  see  him  standing  or  leaning 
somewhere,  intent  on  the  rendering  of  a  song,  the  nar 
ration  of  some  dramatic  incident,  the  description  of 
some  book  or  picture,  or  personage,  by  this  or  that 
delicately  chiseled  Lorelei  of  the  art  or  music  or  dra 
matic  world,  her  heart  contracted  ominously  and  a 
nameless  dread  seized  her.  Somehow,  these  creatures, 
however  intent  they  might  be  on  their  work,  or  how 
ever  indifferent  actually  to  the  artistic  charms  of  her 
husband,  seemed  to  be  intent  on  taking  him  from  her. 
She  saw  how  easily  and  naturally  he  smiled,  how  very 
much  at  home  he  seemd  to  be  in  their  company,  how 


MARRIED  341 

surely  he  gravitated  to  the  type  of  girl  who  was  beau 
tifully  and  artistically  dressed,  who  had  ravishing 
eyes,  fascinating  hair,  a  sylphlike  figure,  and  vivacity 
of  manner — or  how  naturally  they  gravitated  to  him. 
In  the  rush  of  conversation  and  the  exchange  of  greet 
ings  he  was  apt  to  forget  her,  to  stroll  about  by  him 
self  engaging  in  conversation  first  with  one  and  then 
another,  while  she  stood  or  sat  somewhere  gazing 
nervously  or  regretfully  on,  unable  to  hold  her  own  in 
the  cross-fire  of  conversation,  unable  to  retain  the 
interest  of  most  of  the  selfish,  lovesick,  sensation-seek 
ing  girls  and  men. 

They  always  began  talking  about  the  opera,  or  the 
play,  or  the  latest  sensation  in  society,  or  some  new 
singer  or  dancer  or  poet,  and  Marjorie,  being  new  to 
this  atmosphere  and  knowing  so  little  of  it,  was  com 
pelled  to  confess  that  she  did  not  know.  It  chagrined, 
dazed,  and  frightened  her  for  a  time.  She  longed  to 
be  able  to  grasp  quickly  and  learn  what  this  was  all 
about.  She  wonderad  where  she  had  been  living — 
how — to  have  missed  all  this.  Why,  goodness  gra 
cious,  these  things  were  enough  to  wreck  her  married 
life!  Duer  would  think  so  poorly  of  her — how  could 
he  help  it?  She  watched  these  girls  and  women  talk 
ing  to  him,  and  by  turns,  while  imitating  them  as  best 
she  could,  became  envious,  fearful,  regretful,  angry; 
charging,  first,  herself  with  unfitness ;  next,  Duer  with 
neglect;  next,  these  people  with  insincerity,  immoral 
ity,  vanity;  and  lastly,  the  whole  world  and  life  with 
a  conspiracy  to  cheat  her  out  of  what  was  rightfully 
her  own.  Why  wouldn't  these  people  be  nice  to  her? 
Why  didn't  they  give  of  their  time  and  patience  to 
make  her  comfortable  and  at  home — as  freely,  say,  as 


342  MARRIED 

they  did  to  him?  Wasn't  she  his  wife,  now?  Why 
did  Duer  neglect  her?  Why  did  they  hang  on  his 
words  in  their  eager,  seductive,  alluring  way?  She 
hated  them  and,  at  moments,  she  hated  him,  only  to 
be  struck  by  a  terrifying  wave  of  remorse  and  fear 
a  moment  later./  What  if  he  should  grow  tired  of 
her?  What  if  his  love  should  change?  He  had 
seemed  so  enamored  of  her  only  a  little  while  before 
they  were  married,  so  taken  by  what  he  called  her 
naturalness,  grace,  simplicity  and  emotional  pull. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  or  rather  after  it,  when 
they  had  returned  from  an  evening  at  Francis  Hatton's 
at  which  she  felt  that  she  had  been  neglected,  she 
threw  herself  disconsolately  into  Duer's  arms  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"What's  the  matter  with  me,  Duer?  Why  am  I 
so  dull — so  uninteresting — so  worthless?" 

The  sound  of  her  voice  was  pathetic,  helpless,  vi 
brant  with  the  quality  of  an  unuttered  sob,  a  quality 
which  had  appealed  to  him  intensely  long  before  they 
were  married,  and  now  he  stirred  nervously. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you  now,  Margie?" 
he  asked  sympathetically,  sure  that  a  new  storm  of 
some  sort  was  coming.  "What's  come  over  you? 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  you.  Why  do  you 
ask?  Who's  been  saying  there  is?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing — nobody!  Everybody! 
Everything!"  exclaimed  Marjorie  dramatically,  and 
bursting  into  tears.  "I  see  how  it  is.  I  see  what  is 
the  matter  with  me.  Oh !  Oh !  It's  because  I  don't 
know  anything,  I  suppose.  It's  because  I'm  not  fit 
to  associate  with  you.  It's  because  I  haven't  had  the 
training  that  some  people  have  had.  It's  because  I'm 


MARRIED  343 

dull!  Oh!  Oh!"  and  a  torrent  of  heart-breaking 
sobs  which  shook  her  frame  from  head  to  toe  fol 
lowed  the  outburst  and  declamation. 

Duer,  always  moved  by  her  innate  emotional  force 
and  charm,  whatever  other  lack  he  had  reason  to  be 
wail,  gazed  before  him  in  startled  sympathy,  astonish 
ment,  pain,  wonder,  for  he  was  seeing  very  clearly  and 
keenly  in  these  echoing  sounds  what  the  trouble  was. 
She  was  feeling  neglected,  outclassed,  unconsidered, 
helpless,  and  because  it  was  more  or  less  true  it  was 
frightening  and  wounding  her.  She  was,  for  the  first 
time  no  doubt,  beginning  to  feel  the  tragedy  of  life, 
its  uncertainty,  its  pathos  and  injury,  as  he  so  often 
had.  Hitherto  her  home,  her  relatives  and  friends 
had  more  or  less  protected  her  from  that,  for  she  had 
come  from  a  happy  home,  but  now  she  was  out  and 
away  from  all  that  and  had  only  him.  Of  course  she 
had  been  neglected.  He  remembered  that  now.  It 
was  partly  his  fault,  partly  the  fault  of  surrounding 
conditions.  But  what  could  he  do  about  it?  What 
say?  People  had  conditions  fixed  for  them  in  this 
world  by  their  own  ability.  Perhaps  he  should  not 
have  married  her  at  all,  but  how  should  he  comfort 
her  in  this  crisis  ?  How  say  something  that  would 
ease  her  soul  ? 

"Why,  Margie,"  he  said  seriously,  "you  know  that's 
not  true !  You  know  you're  not  dull.  Your  manners 
and  your  taste  and  your  style  are  as  good  as  those  of 
anybody.  Who  has  hinted  that  they  aren't?  What 
has  come  over  you?  Who  has  been  saying  anything 
to  you?  Have  I  done  anything?  If  so,  I'm  sorry!" 
He  had  a  guilty  consciousness  of  misrepresenting  him 
self  and  his  point  of  view  even  while  saying  this,  but 


344  MARRIED 

kindness,  generosity,  affection,  her  legal  right  to  his 
affection,  as  he  now  thought,  demanded  it. 

"No!  No!"  she  exclaimed  brokenly  and  without 
ceasing  her  tears.  "It  isn't  you.  It  isn't  anybody. 
It's  me — just  me!  That's  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
I'm  dull ;  I'm  not  stylish ;  I'm  not  attractive.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  music  or  books  or  people  or 
anything.  I  sit  and  listen,  but  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  People  talk  to  you — they  hang  on  your  words — 
but  they  haven't  anything  to  say  to  me.  They  can't 
talk  to  me,  and  I  can't  talk  to  them.  It's  because  I 
don't  know  anything — because  I  haven't  anything  to 
say!  Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!"  and  she  beat  her  thin, 
artistic  little  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  his  coat 

Duer  could  not  endure  this  storm  without  an  up- 
welling  of  pity  for  her.  He  cuddled  her  close  in  his 
arms,  extremely  sad  that  she  should  be  compelled 
to  suffer  so-  What  should  he  do?  What  could  he 
do?  He  could  see  how  it  was.  She  was  hurt;  she 
was  neglected.  He  neglected  her  when  among  others. 
These  smart  women  whom  he  knew  and  liked  to  talk 
with  neglected  her.  They  couldn't  see  in  her  what 
he  could.  Wasn't  life  pathetic?  They  didn't  know 
how  sweet  she  was,  how  faithful,  how  glad  she  was  to 
work  for  him.  That  really  didn't  make  any  difference 
in  the  art  world,  he  knew,  but  still  it  almost  seemed 
as  if  it  ought  to.  There  one  must  be  clever,  he  knew 
that — everybody  knew  it.  And  Marjorie  was  not 
clever — at  least,  not  in  their  way.  She  couldn't  play 
or  sing  or  paint  or  talk  brilliantly,  as  they  could.  She 
did  not  really  know  what  the  world  of  music,  art,  and 
literature  was  doing.  She  was  only  good,  faithful, 
excellent  as  a  housewife,  a  fine  mender  of  clothes,  a 


MARRIED  345 

careful  buyer,  saving,  considerate,  dependable,  but 

As  he  thought  of  this  and  then  of  this  upwelling 
depth  of  emotion  of  hers,  a  thing  quite  moving  to  him 
always,  he  realized,  or  thought  he  did,  that  no  woman 
that  he  had  ever  known  had  anything  quite  like  this. 
He  had  known  many  women  intimately.  He  had  as 
sociated  with  Charlotte  and  Mildred  and  Neva  Badger 
and  Volida  Blackstone,  and  quite  a  number  of  interest 
ing,  attractive  young  women  whom  he  had  met  here 
and  there  since,  but  outside  of  the  stage — that  art  of 
Sarah  Bernhardt  and  Clara  Morris  and  some  of  the 
more  talented  English  actresses  of  these  later  days — 
he  persuaded  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  any  one 
quite  like  Marjorie.  This  powerful  upwelling  of  emo 
tion  which  she  was  now  exhibiting  and  which  was  so 
distinctive  of  her,  was  not  to  be  found  elsewhere,  he 
thought.  He  had  felt  it  keenly  the  first  days  he  had 
visited  her  at  her  father's  home  in  Avondale.  Oh, 
those  days  with  her  in  Avondale!  How  wonderful 
they  were!  Those  delicious  nights!  Flowers,  moon 
light,  odors,  came  back — the  green  fields,  the  open  sky. 
Yes;  she  was  powerful  emotionally.  She  was  com 
pounded  of  many  and  all  of  these  things. 

It  was  true  she  knew  nothing  of  art,  nothing  of 
music — the  great,  new  music — nothing  of  books  in  the 
eclectic  sense,  but  she  had  real,  sweet,  deep,  sad,  stir 
ring  emotion,  the  most  appealing  thing  he  knew.  It 
might  not  be  as  great  as  that  exhibited  by  some  of  the 
masters  of  the  stage,  or  the  great  composers — he  was 
not  quite  sure,  so  critical  is  life — but  nevertheless  it 
was  effective,  dramatic,  powerful.  Where  did  she 
get  it?  No  really  common  soul  could  have  it.  Here 
must  be  something  of  the  loneliness  of  the  prairies, 


346  MARRIED 

the  sad  patience  of  the  rocks  and  fields,  the  lonesome- 
ness  of  the  hush  of  the  countryside  at  night,  the  aim 
less,  monotonous,  pathetic  chirping  of  the  crickets. 
Her  father  following  down  a  furrow  in  the  twilight 
behind  straining,  toil-worn  horses;  her  brothers  bind 
ing  wheat  in  the  July  sun ;  the  sadness  of  furrow  scents 
and  field  fragrances  in  the  twilight — there  was  some 
thing  of  all  these  things  in  her  sobs. 

It  appealed  to  him,  as  it  might  well  have  to  any 
artist.     In  his  way  Duer  understood  this,  felt  it  keenly. 

"Why,  Margie,"  he  insisted,  "you  mustn't  talk  like 
that!  You're  better  than  you  say  you  are.  You  say 
you  don't  know  anything  about  books  or  art  or  music. 
Why,  that  isn't  all.  There  are  things,  many  things, 
which  are  deeper  than  those  things.  Emotion  is  a 
great  thing  in  itself,  dearest,  if  you  only  knew.  You 
have  that.  Sarah  Bernhardt  had  it ;  Clara  Morris  had 
it,  but  who  else?  In  'La  Dame  aux  Camelias,'  'Sapho/ 
'Carmen,'  'Mademoiselle  de  Maupin,'  it  is  written 
about,  but  it  is  never  commonplace.  It's  great.  I'd 
rather  have  your  deep  upwelling  of  emotion  than  all 
those  cheap  pictures,  songs,  and  talk  put  together. 
For,  sweet,  don't  you  know" — and  he  cuddled  her  more 
closely — "great  art  is  based  on  great  emotion.  There 
is  really  no  great  art  without  it.  I  know  that  best  of 
all,  being  a  musician.  You  may  not  have  the  power  to 
express  yourself  in  music  or  books  or  pictures — you 
play  charmingly  enough  for  me — but  you  have  the 
thing  on  which  these  things  are  based;  you  have  the 
power  to  feel  them.  Don't  worry  over  yourself,  dear. 
I  see  that,  and  I  know  what  you  are,  whether  any  one 
else  does  or  not.  Don't  worry  over  me.  I  have  to 
be  nice  to  these  people.  I  like  them  in  their  way,  but 


MARRIED  347 

I  love  you.  I  married  you — isn't  that  proof  enough  ? 
What  more  do  you  want?  Don't  you  understand, 
little  Margie?  Don't  you  see?  Now  aren't  you  go 
ing  to  cheer  up  and  be  happy?  You  have  me.  Ain't 
I  enough,  sweetie  ?  Can't  you  be  happy  with  just  me  ? 
What  more  do  you  want?  Just  tell  me." 

"Nothing  more,  honey-bun!"  she  went  on  sobbing 
and  cuddling  close;  "nothing  more,  if  I  can  have  you. 
Just  you!  That's  all  I  want — you,  you,  you!" 

She  hugged  him  tight.  Duer  sighed  secretly.  He 
really  did  not  believe  all  he  said,  but  what  of  it? 
What  else  could  he  do,  say,  he  asked  himself?  He 
was  married  to  her.  In  his  way,  he  loved  her — or 
at  least  sympathized  with  her  intensely. 

"And  am  I  emotionally  great?"  she  cuddled  and 
cooed,  after  she  had  held  him  tight  for  a  few  moments. 
'Doesn't  it  make  any  difference  whether  I  know  any 
thing  much  about  music  or  books  or  art?  I  do  know 
something,  don't  I,  honey?  I'm  not  wholly  ignorant, 
am  I?" 

"No,  no,  sweetie;  how  you  talk!" 

"And  will  you  always  love  me  whether  I  know  any 
thing  or  not,  honey-bun?"  she  went  on.  "And  won't 
it  make  any  difference  whether  I  can  just  cook  and 
sew  and  do  the  marketing  and  keep  house  for  you? 
And  will  you  like  me  because  I'm  just  pretty  and  not 
smart?  I  am  a  little  pretty,  ain't  I,  dear?" 

"You're  lovely,"  whispered  Duer  soothingly. 
"You're  beautiful.  Listen  to  me,  sweet.  I  want  to 
tell  you  something.  Stop  crying  now,  and  dry  your 
eyes,  and  I'll  tell  you  something  nice.  Do  you  remem 
ber  how  we  stood,  one  night,  at  the  end  of  your 
father's  field  there  near  the  barn-gate  and  saw  him 


348  MARRIED 

coming  down  the  path,  singing  to  himself,  driving  that 
team  of  big  gray  horses,  his  big  straw  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head  and  his  sleeves  rolled  up  above  his  elbows?" 

"Yes/'  said  Marjorie. 

"Do  you  remember  how  the  air  smelled  of  roses  and 
honeysuckle  and  cut  hay — and  oh,  all  those  lovely 
scents  of  evening  that  we  have  out  there  in  the  coun 
try  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Marjorie.  interestedly. 

"And  do  you  remember  how  lovely  I  said  the  cow 
bells  sounded  tinkling  in  the  pasture  where  the  little 
river  ran?" 

"Yes." 

"And  the  fireflies  beginning  to  flash  in  the  trees  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  sad,  deep  red  in  the  West,  where  the  sun 
had  gone  down?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  Marjorie,  crushing  her 
cheek  to  his  neck. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  honey :  That  water  running  over 
the  bright  stones  in  that  little  river ;  the  grass  spread 
ing  out,  soft  and  green,  over  the  slope ;•  the  cow-bells 
tinkling;  the  smoke  curling  up  from  your  mother's 
chimney;  your  father  looking  like  a  patriarch  out  of 
Bible  days  coming  home — all  the  soft  sounds,  all  the 
sweet  odors,  all  the  carolling  of  birds — where  do  you 
suppose  all  that  is  now?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Marjorie,  anticipating  some 
thing  complimentary. 

"It's  here,"  he  replied  easily,  drawing  her  close  and 
petting  her.  "It's  done  up  in  one  little  body  here  in 
my  arms.  Your  voice,  your  hair,  your  eyes,  your 
pretty  body,  your  emotional  moods — where  do  you 


MARRIED  349 

suppose  they  come  from?  Nature  has  a  chemistry  all 
her  own.  She's  like  a  druggist  sometimes,  compound 
ing  things.  She  takes  a  little  of  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset,  of  the  sky,  of  the  fields,  of  the  water,  of  the 
flowers,  of  dreams  and  aspirations  and  simplicity  and 
patience,  and  she  makes  a  girl.  And  some  parents 
somewhere  have  her,  and  then  they  name  her  'Mar- 
jorie'  and  then  they  raise  her  nicely  and  innocently, 
and  then  a  bold,  bad  man  like  Duer  comes  along  and 
takes  her,  and  then  she  cries  because  she  thinks  he 
doesn't  see^nything  in  her.  Now,  isn't  that  funny?" 

"O-oh!"  exclaimed  Marjorie,  melted  by  the  fire  of 
his  feeling  for  beauty,  the  quaintness  and  sweetness  of 
his  diction,  the  subtlety  of  his  compliment,  the  manner 
in  which  he  coaxed  her  patiently  out  of  herself. 

"Oh,  I  love  you,  Duer  dear !  I  love  you,  love  you, 
love  you!  Oh,  you're  wonderful!  You  won't  ever 
stop  loving  me,  will  you,  dearest?  You'll  always  be 
true  to  me,  won't  you,  Duer?  You'll  never  leave  me, 
will  you?  I'll  always  be  your  little  Margie,  won't  I? 
Oh,  dear,  I'm  so  happy!"  and  she  hugged  him  closer 
and  closer. 

"No,  no,"  and  "Yes,  yes,"  assured  Duer,  as  the 
occasion  demanded,  as  he  stared  patiently  into  the  fire- 
This  was  not  real  passion  to  him,  not  real  love  in  any 
sense,  or  at  least  he  did  not  feel  that  it  was.  He  was 
too  skeptical  of  himself,  his  life  and  love,  however 
much  he  might  sympathize  with  and  be  drawn  to  her. 
He  was  questioning  himself  at  this  very  time  as  to 
what  it  was  that  caused  him  to  talk  so.  Was  it  sym 
pathy,  love  of  beauty,  power  of  poetic  expression,  deli 
cacy  of  sentiment? — certainly  nothing  more.  Wasn't 
it  this  that  was  already  causing  him  to  be  hailed  as  a 


350  MARRIED 

great  musician?  He  believed  so.  Could  he  honestly 
say  that  he  loved  Marjorie?  No,  he  was  sure  that 
he  couldn't,  now  that  he  had  her  and  realized  her  de 
fects,  as  well  as  his  own — his  own  principally.  No; 
he  liked  her,  sympathized  with  her,  felt  sorry  for  her. 
That  ability  of  his  to  paint  a  picture  in  notes  and 
musical  phrases,  to  extract  the  last  ringing  delicacy 
out  of  the  keys  of  a  piano,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this 
last  description.  To  Marjorie,  for  the  moment,  it 
might  seem  real  enough,  but  he — he  was  thinking  of 
the  truth  of  the  picture  she  had  painted  of  herself.  It 
was  all  so — every  word  she  said.  She  was  not  really 
suited  to  these  people.  She  did  not  understand  them  ; 
she  never  would.  He  would  always  be  soothing 
and  coaxing,  and  she  would  always  be  crying  and 
worrying. 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY 

WAS  NEW 

WHEN  William  Walton,  of  Colonial  prestige,  left 
his  father's  house,  St.  George's  Square,  New 
York,  in  the  spring  of  1801,  it  was  to  spend  a  day  of 
social  activity,  which,  in  the  light  of  his  ordinary  com 
mercial  duties,  might  be  termed  idleness.  There  were, 
among  other  things,  a  luncheon  at  the  Livingstone 
Kortright's,  a  stroll  with  one  Mile.  Cruger  to  the 
Lispenard  Meadows,  and  a  visit  in  the  evening  to  the 
only  recently  inaugurated  Apollo  Theater,  where  were 
organized  the  first  permanent  company  of  players  ever 
transported  to  America.  Under  the  circumstances, 
he  had  no  time  for  counting-house  duties,  and  had 
accordingly  decided  to  make  a  day  of  it,  putting  the 
whole  matter  of  commerce  over  until  such  time  as  he 
could  labor  uninterrupted,  which  was  to-morrow. 

As  he  came  out  of  the  door  over  which  was  a  dir.- 
mond-pane  lunette  for  a  transom,  he  was  a  striking 
example  of  the  new  order  of  things  which  had  come 
with  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  the  victory 
of  the  colonies  over  the  British.  Long  trousers  of  light 
twilled  cloth  encased  his  legs,  and  were  fastened  under 
his  shoes  by  straps.  A  flower-ornamented  pink  waist 
coat  and  light  blue  dress  coat  of  broadcloth,  shared 
with  brass  buttons,  yellow  gloves,  and  an  exceedingly 
narrow-brimmed  silk  hat,  in  giving  his  appearance 
that  touch  of  completeness  which  the  fashion  of  the 
day  demanded.  In  the  face  of  those  of  the  older  order, 

35i 


352    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

who  still  maintained  the  custom  of  wearing  knee 
Breeches  and  solemn,  black  waistcoats,  he  was  a  little 
apt  to  appear  the  exaggerated  dandy;  but,  neverthe 
less,  it  was  good  form.  My  Madame  Kortright  would 
expect  it  at  any  luncheon  of  hers,  and  the  common  peo 
ple  knew  it  to  be  the  all-desirable  whenever  wealth 
permitted. 

In  lower  Pearl  Street,  below  Wall,  which  direction 
he  took  to  reach  the  Bowling  Green  and  the  water 
front,  he  encountered  a  number  of  the  fashionable, 
so  far  as  the  commercial  world  was  concerned,  who 
were  anything  but  idle  like  himself. 

"Why,  Master  Walton,  are  you  neglecting  business 
so  early  in  the  morning?"  inquired  Robert  Goelet, 
whose  iron-mongering  business  was  then  the  most  im 
portant  in  the  city. 

"For  this  day  only,"  returned  Walton,  smiling  agree 
ably  at  the  thought  of  a  pleasant  day  to  come.  "Sev 
eral  engagements  make  it  unavoidable." 

"You  are  going  to  the  Collect,  then,  possibly?" 
returned  Goelet,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  old 
water  reservoir,  where  all  of  the  city's  drinking  supply 
was  stored. 

"No/'  said  the  other,  "I  had  not  thought  of  it. 
What  is  there?" 

"Some  one,  I  understand,  who  has  a  boat  he  wishes 
to  try.  It  is  said  to  go  without  sail.  I  should  think 
one  with  as  many  ships  upon  the  water  as  you  have 
would  have  heard  of  any  such  invention  as  that." 

"Ah,  yes,"  answered  young  Walton,  "I  have  heard 
of  men  who  are  going  to  sail  in  the  air,  also.  I  will 
believe  that  a  vessel  can  go  without  sail  when  I  see  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "I  do  not  know.    These  in- 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     353 


354    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

stuffs  woven  in  Holland.  Old  Jacob  Cruger  and  Mor 
timer  Morris,  the  lean  Van  Tassel  and  Julius  van 
Brunt,  merchants  all  and  famous  men  of  the  city,  chat 
ted,  smiled,  and  laughed  together  as  they  discussed  the 
probabilities  of  trade  and  the  arrival  of  the  Silver 
Spray  and  the  Laughing  Mary,  both  in  the  service 
between  New  York  and  Liverpool.  Almost  every 
worthy  present  was  armed  with  his  spy-glass,  as  the 
three- foot  telescopes  were  then  called,  and  now  and 
then  one  would  take  a  look  down  the  bay  and  through 
the  distant  narrows  to  see  if  any  sign  of  a  familiar 
sail  were  present. 

"And  how  is  Master  Walton?"  asked  the  elder 
Astor,  recognizing  the  scion  of  the  one  exceedingly 
wealthy  family  of  the  community. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  returned  the  other,  sur 
veying  the  company,  whose  knee  breeches  and  black 
coats  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  his  modern 
trousers  and  fancy  jacket. 

"These  modern  fashions/'  exclaimed  Cruger,  the 
elder,  coming  forward,  "make  us  old  fellows  seem  en 
tirely  out  of  date.  They  are  a  wretched  contrivance 
to  hide  the  legs.  If  I  were  a  young  woman  I  would 
have  no  man  whose  form  I  could  not  judge  by  his 
clothes." 

"And  if  I  were  a  young  man,"  put  in  the  jovial 
John  Jacob,  "I  would  put  on  no  clothes  which  a  young 
woman  did  not  approve  of." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  other,  smiling,  "these  fashions 
are  strange  contrivances.  Not  ten  years  since  a  man 
would  have  been  drummed  out  of  New  York  had  he 
appeared  in  such  finery  as  this,  and  now,  by  heaven, 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     355 

it  is  we  old  fellows  who  are  like  to  be  shown  the  door 
for  dressing  as  our  fathers  taught  us." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  surely,"  said  Walton.  "Full 
dress  commands  the  old  style  yet  at  evening.  This 
is  but  daylight  custom.  But  how  about  the  Bowling 
Green;  is  no  one  to  play  there  this  morning?" 

"Not  when  two  ships  like  the  Silver  Spray  and 
the  Laughing  Mary  are  like  to  show  their  noses  at 
any  moment,"  observed  Cruger  stoutly.  "I  have  fifty 
barrels  of  good  India  ale  on  the  Silver  Spray. 
Astor,  here,  has  most  of  the  hold  of  the  Laughing 
Mary  filled  with  his  dress  goods.  No  bowling  when 
stocks  must  be  unpacked  quickly." 

"It  is  a  weary  watch,  this,  for  these  dogged  vessels," 
added  Astor  reflectively.  "There  is  no  good  counting 
wind  or  wave.  The  Spaniard,  too,  is  not  dead  yet, 
worse  luck  to  him." 

"I  saw  that  about  the  Polly''  said  young  Walton 
interestedly.  "Perhaps  the  government  will  wake  up 
now  to  our  situation.  The  Spaniard  can  wipe  our 
vessels  off  the  seas  and  hide  behind  the  piracy  idea. 
We  need  more  war  vessels  and  that  quickly,  I  think." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Astor.  "But  we  are  like  to 
have  them  now.  Only  to-day  Congress  voted  to  buy 
more  land  across  the  East  River  there,"  and  he  waved 
his  spy-glass  in  the  direction  of  the  green  outlines  of 
Long  Island. 

"And  that  reminds  me,"  said  Walton,  pulling  out 
his  timepiece  by  the  fob  attached  to  it ;  "I  but  now  met 
Goelet,  who  says  there  is  to  be  a  boat  tried  at  the  Col 
lect  which  goes  without  sail.  It  is  to  be  run  by 
steam." 


356    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  Cruger,  "I  have  no  time  for  such 
nonsense." 

"I  heard  of  it,"  remarked  Astor.  "Possibly  there  is 
something  to  it.  There  could  be  no  harm  in  going  to 
see." 

"I  am  going,"  said  Walton,  "and  by-the-bye,  it  is 
high  time  I  was  on  my  way." 

"And  if  you  have  no  objection  I  go  with  you,"  said 
Astor,  who  was  seriously  interested  to  know  if  there 
was  anything  to  this  idea  or  not.  Others  hearing  this 
joined  them. 

Having  thus  secured  companionship,  young  Walton 
proceeded  up  the  Whitehall  slip  to  the  Bowling  Green, 
whence,  with  his  friends,  he  now  turned  into  the 
Broadway,  and  so  out  past  the  fine  residences  and  occa 
sional  stores  of  that  new  thoroughfare  to  the  old  White 
residence,  where  later  was  to  be  White  Street,  and 
thence  eastward,  across  the  open  common,  to  the 
Collect,  where  is  now  the  Tombs.  Quite  a  formi 
dable  company  of  sightseers  had  gathered,  the  aris 
tocracy,  gentry,  and  common  rabble  forming  in 
separate  groups.  A  very  plain  and  homely  looking 
individual  of  the  older  school,  clad  in  swallow 
tail  and  knee  breeches,  was  there  with  a  contrivance 
large  enough  to  sustain  his  own  weight  in  the  water, 
which  he  was  endeavoring  with  a  wrench,  a  hammer, 
and  an  oil  can  to  put  in  final  shape  for  the  very  impor 
tant  experiment  of  traveling  without  sail.  Naturally 
he  had  the  undivided  and  even  pushing  and  prying 
attention  of  all  present. 

While  the  citizens  thus  gazed,  awaiting  in  comfort 
able  idleness  for  something  of  the  marvelous  to  happen, 
there  came  a  clattering  sound  along  the  east  road  to- 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     357 

ward  the  city,  where  suddenly  appeared  the  outlines  of 
Van  Huicken's  water  wagon,  a  great  hogshead  on 
wheels,  which,  by  its  rumbling  haste,  suggested  fire. 
Close  after  followed  the  Almerich,  another  vehicle  of 
the  same  kind,  which  secured  its  name  from  its  owner. 
Both  drivers  hailed  the  crowd  while  yet  a  distance  off 
with  shouts  of  "Fire!"  and  then  from  distant  Fulton 
Street  were  heard  the  sounds  of  a  bell  tolling  out  the 
same  intelligence. 

Everybody  now  wavered  uncertainly  between  the 
possibility  of  witnessing  a  marvelous  invention  and  the 
certainty  of  seeing  a  splendid  conflagration,  with  the 
result  that  certainty  triumphed.  Instantly  upon  learn 
ing  the  nature  of  the  fire,  both  commonry  and  gentry 
departed,  leaving  Astor  and  Walton,  with  their  asso 
ciates,  gazing  at  the  tinkering  wonder-worker  alone. 

"That  must  be  near  the  President's  house,"  observed 
Walton,  who  was  looking  toward  the  city.  "It  may 
spread/' 

"This  fellow  will  get  nothing  out  of  his  machine 
to-day,  I  fear,"  returned  Astor,  moved  by  the  thought 
of  a  dangerous  and  yet  interesting  fire  as  he  gazed 
rather  unfavorably  upon  the  quiet  inventor,  who  had 
not  remained  unaware  of  this  public  defection.  "Let 
us  go  back." 

With  somewhat  more  of  eagerness  than  was  con 
formable  with  their  general  stately  bearing,  this  rather 
important  local  company  now  took  up  the  trail  of  the 
water  wagons  and  returned. 

In  William  Street,  just  off  the  Old  Boston  Road 
and  near  the  newly-named  Liberty  Street,  were  many 
signs  of  public  excitement.  The  fine  residence  of  the 
Athorps,  recently  leased  by  the  French  minister,  had 


358    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

taken  fire,  and  was  rapidly  burning.  Although  nine 
of  the  fourteen  water-pumps  of  the  city  were  upon  the 
scene  of  action,  and  eight  men  were  toiling  at  each 
handle,  little  progress  was  making.  Bucket  brigades 
were  also  in  operation,  the  volunteer  citizens  drawing 
upon  every  well  in  the  neighborhood  for  blocks  about ; 
but  to  small  result.  The  flames  gained  apace.  Men 
ran  looking  for  Goiter's  water  conveyance,  which 
had  not  yet  been  pressed  into  action,  and  Huicken's 
Broadway  sprinkler,  which,  however,  had  already  been 
sent  to  the  Collect  for  more  water.  There  was  a  deal 
of  clatter  and  confusion,  coupled  with  the  absolute 
certainty  of  destruction,  for  no  pumping  could  throw 
the  water  beyond  the  second  story.  More  than  once 
the  tank  supply,  as  rattled  forward  from  the  Collect 
and  the  East  River,  was  totally  suspended,  while  the 
flames  gained  new  ground.  This  latter  was  due  to  the 
badness  of  the  roads  and  the  inadequacy  of  the  help  at 
the  supply  end,  where,  since  all  thought  to  gaze  upon 
the  fire,  none  were  remaining  to  help  the  lone  Huicken 
or  the  energetic  Goiter. 

When  this  last  company  of  volunteer  fire  fighters 
arrived,  with  their  buckets  and  other  contrivances  for 
fighting  a  blaze,  the  flames  had  gained  such  headway 
that  there  was  little  to  be  done.  Walton  wasted  half 
an  hour  discussing  fire  protection,  and  then  bethought 
himself  of  his  luncheon  engagement. 

"I  must  be  out  of  this,"  he  said  to  Astor,  as  they 
stood  gazing  upon  the  flames  and  the  surging  throng. 
"I  am  late  as  it  is." 

The  genial  forefather  scarcely  heard  him  at  all. 
So  interested  was  he  that  his  own  luncheon  mattered 
not  at  all.  Quietly  Walton  withdrew  then,  and  getting 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     359 

back  into  Boston  Road  and  the  Broadway,  betook  him 
self  toward  the  Bowling  Green  and  Madame  Kort- 
right's. 

That  lady's  mansion  was  to  the  west  of  the  old  play 
ground,  looking  out  over  lawn  and  lane  to  some  space 
of  water  to  be  seen  in  the  East  River  and  a  boat  or 
two  at  anchor  in  the  bay.  As  he  tapped  upon  the 
broad  door  with  its  brazen  knocker,  a  liveried  servant 
opened  to  him,  bowing  profoundly  in  greeting. 

"Will  Master  Walton  give  me  his  hat  and  gloves?" 

"Ah,  Master  Walton,"  remarked  the  hostess,  who 
now  entered  smiling.  "I  had  almost  doubted  your 
punctuality,  though  you  have  good  reason.  Whose 
house  is  it  burning?" 

"Count  Rennay's,"  answered  Walton,  mentioning 
the  French  representative  to  our  government. 
^    "I  have  sent  a  servant  to  discover  it  for  me,  but 
he  has  not  yet  returned.     It  must  have  fascinated  him 
also.     We  must  sit  to  lunch  at  once,  sir." 

As  the  hostess  said  this,  she  turned  about  in  her 
great  hoops,  now  but  recently,  like  long  trousers,  come 
into  fashion,  and  led  the  way.  Her  hair  was  done  in 
the  curls  of  the  post-revolution  period,  three  at  each 
side,  about  the  ears,  and  a  tall  chignon  that  was  almost 
a  curl  in  itself.  With  stately  grace  she  led  the  way  to 
the  dining  chamber  and  bowed  him  to  his  place.  Eu- 
lalia,  a  daughter,  and  Sophia,  a  friend,  entered  almost 
at  the  same  moment  with  them  through  another  door. 

At  the  head  of  the  long,  oaken  table  there  were 
already  standing  the  two  black  table  servants  of  this 
dignified  household,  splendid  imported  Africans, 
trained  in  Virginia.  My  lady's  table  was  a-gleam  with 
much  of  the  richest  plate  and  old  Holland  china  in 


360    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

the  city.  An  immense  silver  candelabra  graced  the 
center,  and  at  every  corner  were  separate  graven  gold 
sticks  making  a  splendid  show. 

"I  have  the  greatest  terror  of  fire  anywhere  in  our 
city/'  began  the  hostess,  even  as  young  Walton  was 
bowing.  "We  have  so  little  protection.  I  have  urged 
upon  our  selectmen  the  necessity  of  providing  some 
thing  better  than  we  have — a  water  tower  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort  but  so  far  nothing  has  come  of  it." 

"You  were  at  the  fire,  Master  Walton?"  inquired 
the  handsome  Eulalie  archly. 

"I  came  that  way  with  several  friends  from  the  Col 
lect,"  he  answered. 

"Why  the  Collect?"  asked  the  hostess,  who  was  now 
seated  with  the  two  blacks  towering  above  her. 

"There  is  a  man  there  who  has  a  boat  which  is  to 
go  without  sail,  as  I  understand  it,  providing  his  idea 
is  correct.  It  is  to  go  by  steam,  I  believe,  only  he  did 
not  succeed  in  making  it  so  do  to-day,  at  least  not 
while  I  was  there.  It  may  have  gone,  though.  I 
could  not  wait  to  see." 

"Oh  marvelous,"  exclaimed  Eulalie,  putting  up  a 
pair  of  pretty  hands,  "and  really  is  it  a  boat  that  will 
travel  so?" 

"I  cannot  vouch  for  that,"  returned  the  youth  grave 
ly.  "It  was  not  going  when  we  visited  it.  The  fire 
and  my  engagement  took  the  entire  audience  of  the 
inventor  away,"  and  he  smiled. 

"I  shall  have  no  faith  in  any  such  trap  as  that  until  I 
see  it,"  observed  Madame  Kortright.  "Fancy  being 
on  the  water  and  no  sail  to  waft  you.  Mercy !" 

"I  fancy  it  will  be  some  time  before  men  will  ven- 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     361 

ture  afar  on  any  such  craft,"  returned  the  youth;  "but 
it  is  a  bit  curious." 

"Dangerous,  I  should  say,"  suggested  Mistress 
Sophia. 

"No,"  said  Walton,  "not  that,  I  think.  My  father 
has  often  told  me  that  Master  Franklin  predicted  to 
him  that  men  should  harness  the  lightning  before  many 
years.  That  is  even  more  strange  than  this." 

"That  may  all  be  true,"  said  Madame  Kortright, 
"but  it  has  not  come  to  pass  yet.  It  will  never  be  in 
our  time,  I  fear.  But  did  you  hear  of  the  case  of 
jewels  at  Maton's?" 

"Has  he  imported  something  new?"  inquired  Eu- 
lalie  smartly. 

"The  last  ship  brought  a  case  of  gems  for  him,  I 
hear,"  continued  the  hostess.  "That  should  be  of 
interest  to  you,  Master  Walton." 

The  youth  flushed  slightly  at  the  implication  in 
volved.  His  attentions  to  Mistress  Beppie  Cruger 
were  becoming  a  subject  of  pleasing  social  comment. 

"So  it  is)"  he  said  gaily,  as  he  recovered  his  com 
posure.  "I  shall  look  in  upon  Maton  this  very  after 
noon." 

"And  I  should  like  to  see  what  is  new  in  France," 
said  the  ruddy  Sophia  seriously.  "I  have  not  an  ear 
ring  or  a  pin  in  my  collection  that  is  not  as  old  as  the 
hills " 

"Nor  any  the  less  valuable,  I  venture,"  answered 
Walton,  with  an  impressive  air. 

"I  would  give  them  for  new  ones,  believe  me,"  re 
turned  the  girl  quaintly. 

Upon  this  gossiping  company  the  two  blacks  waited 
with  almost  noiseless  accuracy,  one  serving  at  each 


362    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

side  in  answer  to  silent  looks  and  nods  from  the  host 
ess.  Walton  watched  them  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye,  gossiping  the  while.  In  his  new  home,  he  thought, 
whenever  the  fair  lady  consented,  there  should  be  two 
such  lackeys  gracing  her  more  tender  beauty.  He 
could  not  help  thinking  how  much  more  effective  they 
would  appear  behind  her  than  his  present  hostess,  who, 
however,  was  attractive  enough.  It  made  him  restless 
to  depart,  for  certainly  this  afternoon  he  should 
definitely,  if  he  could,  learn  his  fate.  The  jewels 
would  be  one  excuse.  He  would  take  her  to  look  at 
the  jewels  before  the  evening  called  them  to  the 
theater,  and  then  he  would  see. 

Once  he  was  free  of  the  entertainment  provided, 
he  hurried  away  into  Wall  Street,  the  spire  of  Trinity 
already  beginning  to  cast  a  short  eastward  shadow. 
About  the  building  occupied  as  the  new  National  Capi 
tol  a  few  dignitaries  from  the  colonies  were  to  be 
seen.  The  new  mixture  of  stores  among  the  resi 
dences  was  beginning  to  make  lovely  Wall  Street  less 
conservative.  A  bank  had  opened  just  below  the 
Capitol,  its  entrance  reaching  out  to  the  very  sidewalk 
and  hedging  in  the  view  of  the  gardens  beyond.  Soon, 
if  the  city  kept  on  growing,  all  the  fine  old  gardens 
would  have  to  go. 

He  pondered,  as  he  walked,  until  he  came  to  a  cer 
tain  gateway  below  William  Street,  where  he  entered. 
From  a  window  looking  out  upon  a  small  balcony 
above  a  face  disappeared,  and  now  he  was  greeted  by 
another  pompous  servant  at  the  door. 

"My  compliments,"  he  said,  "to  Mistress  Cruger, 
if  she  pleases,  and  I  am  waiting." 

The  servant  bowed  and  retired.    In  a  few  moments 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     363: 

more  there  fluttered  down  into  the  large  reception 
room  from  above  the  loveliest  embodiment  of  the  new 
order  of  finery  that  he  had  ever  seen.  Such  dainti 
ness  in  curls  and  laces,  such  lightness  in  silken  flounces 
displayed  upon  spreading  hoops,  he  felt  to  be  without 
equal.  With  a  graceful  courtesy  she  received  his 
almost  ponderous  bow. 

"Mother  gives  you  her  greeting,  and  she  cannot 
come  with  us  to-day/'  she  said.  "She  has  a  very  se 
vere  headache." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  replied  sym 
pathetically,  "but  you  will  come?  The  weather  has 
favored  us,  and  I  fancy  the  meadows  will  be  beautiful 
to  see." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will  come/'  she  returned  smiling.  "It 
is  not  quite  three,  however,"  she  added.  "You  are 
early." 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  "but  we  may  talk  until 
then.  Besides  there  is  something  I  wish  you  to  see 
before  theater  time — no,  I  will  tell  you  of  it  later.- 
Henry  will  be  on  time." 

They  seated  themselves  very  respectfully  distant 
and  took  up  the  morning's  commonplaces.  Had  he 
heard  of  the  fire  and  where  the  French  minister  was 
now  being  entertained?  Cards  had  but  this  morning 
come  from  the  Jacob  Van  Dams  for  a  reception  at 
their  new  house  in  Broome  Street.  The  Goelets  were 
to  build  farther  out  in  Pearl  Street. 

"I  think  it  is  a  shame,"  she  said,  "the  way  they  are 
deserting  us  in  this  street.  We  shall  have  to  go  also 
very  shortly,  and  I  like  Wall  Street." 

"When  your  turn  comes  perhaps  you  will  not  mind 
it  so  much,"  he  returned,  thinking  of  the  proposal  he 


364    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

hoped  to  find  the  courage  to  make.     "Broome  Street 
is  certainly  pleasing  after  the  new  style." 

She  thought  of  all  the  fine  residences  being  erected 
in  that  new  residence  section,  and  for  some,  to  him, 
inexplicable  reason,  smiled.  Outside,  through  the 
vine-festooned  window,  she  could  see  a  broad,  open 
barouche  turning. 

"Here  is  the  carriage/'  she  said. 

As  they  came  out  of  the  quiet  chamber  into  the 
open  sunlight,  part  of  their  stilted  reserve  vanished. 
Once  in  the  carriage  beside  him,  she  smiled  happily. 
As  they  rolled  into  William  Street  and  up  the  Old 
Boston  Road  into  the  green  shaded  Bowery,  she 
laughed  for  the  very  joy  of  laughing. 

"It  is  good  to  feel  spring  again/'  she  said,  "the  cold 
days  are  so  many." 

As  they  traveled,  an  occasional  citizen  before  his 
doorway,  or  pleasure  seeker  upon  horseback,  greeted 
them.  The  distinguished  Aaron  Burr  was  here  pranc 
ing  gaily  countryward.  Old  Peter  Stuyvesant's  man 
sion  was  kept  as  rich  in  flowers  as  when  he  had  been 
alive  to  care  for  it. 

"Are  not  the  fields  beautiful  about  here?"  he  ob 
served,  after  they  had  passed  the  region  of  the  Col 
lect. 

"Lovely,"  she  returned.  "I  never  see  them  but  I 
think  of  dancing,  they  are  so  soft." 

"Let  us  get  out  and  walk  upon  them,  anyhow,"  he 
answered.  "Henry  can  wait  for  us  at  the  turn  yon 
der." 

He  was  pointing  to  a  far  point,  where,  through 
a  clump  of  trees,  the  winding  footpath,  leading  out 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     365 

*.-  • 

from  here,  joined  Broadway,  now  a  lane  through  the 
woods  and  fields. 

Gaily  she  acquiesced,  and  he  helped  her  down. 
When  the  servant  was  out  of  hearing,  he  reached  for 
a  dandelion,  and  pressing  his  lips  to  it  said,  "Here  is 
a  token." 

"Of  what?"  she  said  shyly. 

"What  should  it  be?"  he  asked  wistfully. 

"Spring,  probably." 

"And  nothing  else?" 

"Youth,"  she  answered,  laughing. 

"And  nothing  else?"  he  questioned,  drawing  close 
with  a  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  said,  laughing  and  cast 
ing  it  down,  because  of  her  fear  of  the  usual  signifi 
cance  of  the  situation. 

"You  mustn't  throw  it  away,"  he  said  stooping. 
"Keep  it.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means.  I— I " 

"See  the  wild  roses!"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  in 
creasing  her  pace.  "I  should  rather  have  some  of 
those  for  a  token,  if  you  please." 

He  relaxed  his  tension,  and  hastened  for  that  which 
she  desired.  When  he  returned  to  hand  them  to  her, 
she  was  laughing  at  something. 

"Ah,  you  laugh,"  he  said  sadly.  "I  think  I  know 
why." 

"It  is  because  of  the  day,"  she  answered. 

Somehow  he  could  make  no  progress  with  his  dec 
laration  until  it  was  too  late.  Already  they  were 
near  the  carriage,  and  south  along  the  road  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  was  the  Lispenard  country  house.  Her 
relatives,  the  Lispenards,  were  there  as  owners.  He 
scarcely  had  time  for  what  he  wished  to  say. 


366    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

"Shall  we  stop  there?"  he  asked  in  a  subdued  mur 
mur,  as  in  driving  again  they  neared  the  long  piazza 
where  guests  were  seated  enjoying  the  prospect  of  the 
meadows  beyond.  "It  is  four  now,  and  the  play  be 
gins  at  six.  There  are  some  new  jewels  from  France 
at  Maton's,  which  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see 
before  then." 

"Jewels  from  France !  Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  to  see 
those.  Let  us  go  there,"  she  answered.  "But  I  must 
have  time  to  dress,  too,  you  know." 

To  the  guests  then,  bowing  as  they  passed,  they 
returned  a  smiling  nod,  and  meeting  others  in  car 
riages  and  chairs,  extended  this  same  courtesy  as  they 
went  along.  Walton  brooded  in  a  mock-dreary  man 
ner,  but  finding  that  it  availed  nothing  thought  to 
tempt  her  considerateness  with  jewels. 

"What  trinkets  are  these  you  have  from  France  of 
which  I  hear?"  he  inquired  of  Maton  as  they  entered 
that  sturdy  jeweler's  shop  in  Maiden  Lane. 

"On  the  very  last  packet,"  explained  the  latter, 
spreading  the  best  of  his  importations  upon  a  black 
velvet  cloth  before  them.  "You  will  not  see  the  like 
of  these  six  diamonds  in  New  York  again  for  many 
years,  I  warrant  you.  Look  at  this." 

He  held  up  an  exquisitely  wrought  ring  of  French 
workmanship,  in  which  a  fine  stone  was  gleaming,  and 
smiled  upon  it  approvingly. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "it  is  very  large.  It  is  cut  by 
Toussard.  Did  you  ever  see  such  workmanship  ?"  He 
turned  it  over  and  over,  and  then  held  it  lovingly  up. 
"The  band  itself  is  so  small,"  he  added,  "that  I  believe 
it  would  fit  the  lady's  finger — let  us  see." 

Cpquettishly  she  put  out  her  hand,  and  then  seeing 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     36? 

that  it  marvelously  slipped  on  and  fitted,  opened  her 
«yes  wide. 

"Now,  is  not  that  beautiful!"  exclaimed  the  jeweler. 
''What  a  gem !  The  finest  of  any  that  I  have  imported 
yet,  and  it  fits  as  though  it  had  been  ordered  for  her." 
He  cast  a  persuasive  smile  upon  Walton  whose  interest 
in  the  fair  Beppie  he  well  knew.  The  latter  pretended 
not  the  slightest  understanding. 

"It  is  well  cut,"  she  said. 

"And  the  loveliest  you  have  ever  worn/'  added 
Walton  hopefully. 

By  her  side,  in  front  of  the  counter  and  between 
their  bodies,  he  was  endeavoring  to  take  her  free  hand. 

"Let  it  stay,"  he  said  gently,  when  he  had  secured 
it,  and  was  signalling  the  significance  of  the  ring  to 
her  fingers. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  smiling  as  if  she  were  only  jesting, 
"you  are  too  daring.  I  might !" 

"Do,"  he  answered. 

"Such  a  ring!"  said  the  jeweler. 

"I  will  then,"  said  she. 

"Then,  Master  Maton,"  said  Walton,  "you  need 
only  send  the  bill  to  me,"  and  he  laughed  as  he  pushed 
the  remaining  display  away. 

As  they  came  out,  after  having  vaguely  picked  over 
the  others,  the  young  lover  was  all  elation.  Upon  the 
narrow  side-path  a  servant  wheeling  a  trunk  to  the 
Liverpool  dock  upon  a  barrow  brushed  him  rudely,  but 
he  did  not  notice.  Only  a  newsboy  crying  out  the 
Gazette,  the  blast  of  the  bugle  of  the  incoming  stage 
coach  from  Boston,  the  dust  of  the  side-path,  where 
the  helper  of  the  Apollo  was  sweeping  the  lobby  pre 
paratory  to  the  performance  of  the  night,  attracted 


368    WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW 

and  pleased  him.  He  helped  his  fiancee  gaily  into  the 
carriage  and  half  bounded  with  joy  to  the  seat  beside 
her,  where  he  smiled  and  smiled. 

"I  may  not  wear  it,  though,"  said  his  betrothed,  now 
that  the  remarkable  episode  was  over,  and  she  held 
up  a  dainty  finger;  "because,  as  you  know,  you  have 
not  spoken  to  my  father  as  yet." 

"Keep  it,  nevertheless,"  he  answered.  "I  will  speak 
to  him  fast  enough." 

"I  give  you  good-day,  Master  Walton,"  said  the  dis 
tinguished  Jefferson  as  they  passed  from  William  into 
Wall  Street,  near  where  that  statesman  made  tem 
porary  stopping-place  when  in  the  city. 

"Master  Jefferson,  William,"  cried  his  fiancee  softly, 
using  for  the  first  time  his  given  name.  "Master 
Jefferson  has  bid  you  good-day." 

"Good  evening!"  cried  Walton,  all  deference  in  a 
moment  because  of  the  error  which  his  excitement  had 
occasioned,  "good  evening  to  you,  sir!"  and  he  bowed, 
and  bowed  very  gracefully  again. 

"How  can  I  be  so  mindful,  though,  of  all  these 
formalities,"  he  said  explanatorily  as  he  turned  once 
more  to  his  fair  intended,  "when  I  have  you?  It  is 
not  to  be  expected." 

"But  necessary,  just  the  same,"  she  said.  "And  if 
you  are  to  begin  thus  quickly  neglecting  your  duties, 
what  am  I  to  think?" 

For  answer  he  took  her  hand.  Elatedly  then  they 
made  their  way  to  the  old  homestead  again,  and  there 
being  compelled  to  leave  her  while  she  dressed  for 
the  theater,  he  made  his  way  toward  the  broad  and 
tree-shaded  Bowery,  where  was  the  only  true  and  idyl 
lic  walk  for  a  lover.  The  older  houses  nearest  the 


WHEN  THE  OLD  CENTURY  WAS  NEW     369 

city,  redolent  in  their  Dutch  architecture  of  an  older 
and  even  quainter  period;  the  wide  paths  and  broad 
doorways,  rich  in  both  vines  and  flowers;  the  rapidly 
decreasing  evidences  of  population  as  one's  steps  led 
northward — all  combined  to  soothe  and  set  dreaming 
the  poetic  mind.  Here  young  Walton,  as  so  many  be 
fore  him,  strolled  and  hummed,  thinking  of  all  that 
life  and  the  young  city  held  for  him.  Now,  indeed, 
was  his  fortune  truly  made.  Love  was  his,  the  lovely 
Beppie,  no  less.  Here  then  he  decided  to  build  that 
mansion  of  his  own — far  out,  indeed,  above  Broome 
Street,  but  in  this  self-same  thoroughfare  where  all 
was  so  suggestive  of  flowers  and  romance.  He  had 
no  inkling,  as  he  pondered,  of  what  a  century  might 
bring  forth.  The  crush  and  stress  and  wretchedness 
fast  treading  upon  this  path  of  loveliness  he  could  not 
see. 


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BEG.  GIB.     JUN  1  7  '1982 


